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PERDITA 

A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 




M^^L-Ccccce. C&CCe>C'Cl<yp^ 



PERDITA 



^ ROMANCE IN BIOGR^^PHY 



By 

STANLEY V. MAKOWER 



WITH SEVENTEEN 
ILLUSTRATIONS 



NEW YORK 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

1908 



/c^r 



,'? j'-^ 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



Mary Robinson (Perdita) Frontispiece 

From a photograph of the picture in the Wallace collection by Gainsborough. 

FACING PAGE 

Melania (Mary Robinson) 32 

From an engraving by J. Conde, after a miniature by R. Cosway. 



Mary Robinson 68 

From an engraving by J. Conde, after a miniature by R. Cosway. 



Inside View of the Rotunda at Ranelagh 96 

From a drawing and engraving by Bowles. 



George Robert Fitzgerald 124 

From an original miniature painting. 



Vauxhall Gardens 130 

From an engraving after a drawing by Thomas Rowlandson. 



Mary Robinson 152 

From a mezzotint engraving by W. Dickinson, after a painting by 
Sir Joshua Reynolds. 



Richard Brinsley Sheridan and Mrs. Robinson .... 170 
From a photograph of the picture by George Romney. 

Mrs. Robinson in the Character of Amanda . . . .186 

From an engraving by Thornthwaite, after a drawing by F. Roberts. 



Thomas Lord Lyttelton . . . . • . . . .214 
From a mezzotint eng^raving by Charles Townley, after the picture by 
R. Cosway. 



vi LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



FACING PAGE. 



George Prince of Wales, and Prince Frederick, afterwards 

Duke of York . . „,^ 
240 

From a mezzotint engraving by Valentine Green, after the picture by 
Benjamin West. 



Mary Robinson . . „^q 

. 25& 

From a photograph of the picture in the Wallace collection by George 
Romney. 



George Prince of Wales . . . „^, 

From a mezzotint by Charles Howard Hodges, after the picture by 
Sir Joshua Reynolds. 



Mrs. Robinson 2Fj. 

From a pencil sketch by John Downman. 



Charles James Fox 2q& 

From a photograph of the picture by Johann Zoffany. 



Colonel Tarleton ~^q 

From a mezzotint by J. R. Smith, after the picture by Sir Joshua 
Reynolds. 



Mary Robinson ......... T^fi- 

From a photograph of the picture in the Wallace collection by 
Sir Joshua Reynolds. 



PAGES 

To THE Reader ..... 34-2 

Bibliography ..... 343 lAt 

Characters impersonated by Mary 

Robinson 346 — 34-7 

^^^^^ 349-355 



ERRATA 

Page lo, line 2 : for Montague ^/?ai/ Montagu. 
Page 59, line 17 : for uncle read relative. 



PERDITA 

A Romance in Biography 



I 

Her picture hangs in a place of honour in the long 
room at Hertford House, a conspicuous example of 
beauty that provokes the spectator like a challenge, 
allied with an acuteness of portraiture striking even 
in that gallery of masterpieces. Other portrayals of 
Mary Robinson arouse interest or command homage. 
In the same room one is tempted to raise the hat to 
Romney's stylish canvas, a head and shoulders con- 
veying the sense of a woman, young, bewitchingly 
fair, with a careless effrontery in the folds of her high 
white cap and the turn of her head. She seems to be 
walking briskly, with step made more than ordinarily 
elastic by the sting of the winter air. Her hands are 
in her muff and her eyes bespeak the recent recognition 
of some passer-by. In the portrait by Reynolds on 
the same wall, also a head and shoulders, she looks 
older, and in place of movement is the almost 
statuesque repose of a head in profile. Her expression 
is of one preoccupied ; her eyes do not appear to take 
in the prospect of the turbid sea towards which they 
are turned. Clearly she is thinking. But of what.^ 

I 



2 PERDITA 

All that can be said is, her thoughts are chosen by the 
artist at a moment unbecoming to her loveliness ; and 
curiosity, however high it rises, does not soften wonder 
into admiration. 

The full-length picture of Gainsborough does not 
resemble the others. Indeed it is not long since 
surmise gave place to the certainty that this strangely 
beautiful figure is no other than Mary Robinson. 
But the discovery, while it silences the high voices 
of art critics at variance, opens the lips of her 
apologist for the first time. Sadness and pride look 
out from beneath those relentless eyebrows, a sadness 
and a pride made inextinguishable by the painter's 
genius. She is seated in an attitude of stiffness made 
doubly perceptible by the haunting slightness of her 
limbs. As if to heighten the effect of superb but 
sorrowful condescension in the human figure, a white 
fox dog, embodying the very spirit of restless merri- 
ment, rests for a moment at her side, a creature made 
for boisterous gambol on a lawn. The parted jaws, 
the panting vigour, and the sanguine life in the eye 
of the animal are what first provoke a comment from 
the casual spectator, and the liveliness of this impression 
deepens for him the neighbouring melancholy of the 
lady's mien as he glances upwards. Everywhere the 
picture is one of strong contrasts. The light gossamer 
of her dress, the delicate fairness of her flesh, emerge 
from the sombre richness of dark foliage passing from 
her immediate neighbourhood into the familiar distinct- 
ness of Gainsborough's blue-green trees bending their 
feathery heads one towards the other up a gently 
rising slope of park land. 

I have spoken of the sadness and the pride in that 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 3 

face, but these words do not exhaust the contents of 
its message. She looks listless, disdainful. Ill- 
tempered } Perhaps. In her right hand she holds 
a circular miniature — is it of some soldier in scarlet 
uniform ? Did the painter place it there for the value 
of that tiny splash of colour ? Or has it some bearing 
on her life ? When once the face of Gainsborough's 
Mary becomes a centre of study excluding observation 
of the other pictures in the room, her eyes pursue 
the spectator with a steady appeal for comprehension. 
Compassion ^ We shall see. It is a face with a 
story ; and when the pleasure of idly wondering who 
she was, where she lived and what she did, yields to 
the pursuit of practical inquiry, we find the gates of 
research wide open to a domain of mingled reality and 
romance in which enchantment and disenchantment 
tread upon each other's heels, and almost every fresh 
turn of the road discloses a prospect to arouse the 
sympathy or the indignation, the sorrow or the 
scorn of humanity. 



The rain was beating in torrents against the case- 
ments of Mrs. Darby's chamber on the night of the 
27th of November, 1758. Even at that date no place 
in Bristol was richer in historical associations than 
the Minster House with its pinnacled tower and its 
disconcerting architectural compromise between the 
ancient and the modern styles. Wedged in between 
the cathedral and the cloisters of St. Augustine's 
monastery, its most cheerful aspect could be observed 
from the narrow windows of the room facing a small 
garden of which the gates opened upon what then was 



4 PERDITA 

called Minster Green. It was a house of which the 
construction was intricately gloomy, and for the student 
of romance, as for the painter, its most characteristic 
setting was just such a night of wind and tempest- 
wracked clouds as that on which Mrs. Darby gave 
birth to her third child. The imagination pictures 
it " cased in the unfeeling armour of old time " braving 
the lightning ; and the terrors of the storm, made 
all the more alarming for a sensitive woman by the 
peril of her condition, impressed themselves so vividly 
on her mind that in after life she never spoke of 
that rueful sky without a tremor. 

There was a strong reason for the peculiar affection 
lavished upon Mary by her mother in later life. She 
was born between two domestic calamities. An elder 
sister died of the smallpox barely a couple of years 
before the year 1758 ; a younger brother died at 
the age of six from a malignant attack of measles. 
John, the eldest of the family, and George, Mary's 
younger brother, were settled early in their career 
/ as merchants at Leghorn. Their avocation no less 
than the distance at which they lived prevented them 
from taking any very lively interest in their sister's 
career. Inheriting their father's instinct for trading, 
and directing it into a tolerably lucrative channel, they 
lived and died in the respectable region of activity 
which they had carved out for themselves. The very 
reputation for respectability to which they made just 
claim, would have perished with them but for the 
light shed upon it by the vicissitudes of their illustrious 
sister's life. 

As a little child Mary was much influenced by the 
portentous gloom of the Minster House. From her 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 5 

nursery she could hear the chauntlng of the choristers 
at morning and evening service ; one of the rooms 
in the house had originally formed part of the monas- 
tery itself, and when she read Horace Walpole's 
" Castle of Otranto," as she must have done very soon 
after its appearance in 1765, the scenes of the novel 
associated themselves inevitably with the terrors, rising 
nimbly to her mind as she wandered through the 
old house to the twilight of the monastic chamber 
with its mysterious winding staircase. Fancy pictures 
the child half frightened, half amused as she stands 
on the last step and peers at the iron spiked door 
which led to the cloisters beneath. That there is 
nothing extraordinary in the supposition that Mary 
read " The Castle of Otranto " when she was no more 
than seven years of age, may be gathered from the 
fact that at this time she was able to recite Pope's 
*' Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady." 
She had already had lessons on the harpsichord for 
two years and could sing Gay's ballad " 'Twas when 
the Sea was Roaring " and " The Heavy Hours," a 
poem by the father of one who was destined to come 
into her life at a critical period. 

Walpole's wit forsook him not only when he wrote 
" Otranto " but when he ultimately consented to ac- 
knowledge its paternity. Had he preserved the secret 
in his own time, it is highly improbable that a critical 
examination of his other works would have led to its 
discovery in ours. But the success of the book was 
due to the extravagance of the situations depicted, 
and as a milestone in the long road of English fiction 
it deserves study. People wanted to be frightened 
in those days, and the cold, deliberate ingenuity with 



6 PERDITA 

which Walpole frightened them in the pages of his 
novel provided a high example of misdirected skill 
which reaped the reward of European popularity. At 
the age of seven Mary Darby's imagination was quite 
as fully developed as that of most people ten years 
later, but the clue to her early psychology lies in 
comprehending how nearly her childish affinity for 
the supernatural manifestation of ghosts in an environ- 
ment of gloom and mystery corresponded with the 
inspiration of such works as " The Castle of Otranto." 
She had an inveterate propensity for lurking in the 
most uncanny places to which she could gain access. 
Thus, while her brothers were romping on the Minster 
Green she would creep under the great brass eagle 
of the cathedral itself, the lectern from which the 
lessons of the day were read, and here she would 
remain for as long a time as she could escape the 
observation of the sexton. Cold weather did not keep 
her from her cherished place of meditation, and when 
at last " Black John " (as the sexton was called, from 
the colour of his beard and complexion) detected her 
in hiding, she loved to represent to herself the 
reiterated appearance of this *' mysterious visitant " 
as an occasion foreboding all kinds of delightful terrors 
to come. Had the Chamber of Horrors existed in 
those days, Mary Darby would have sought to 
commune with its mute occupants at dead of night. 
Very likely she would have fainted in the attempt, 
but the temptation to test herself would have been 
irresistible. As it was, the depressing effect of 
" Gothic " architecture upon the spirits did duty for 
the loathsome verisimilitude of waxen effigies to 
plunge the mind into an atmosphere of preternatural 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 7 

horror and impossible crime. A wiser mother than 
Mrs. Darby might have checked these impulses in 
her daughter with some severity ; but the danger of 
indulging them was less apparent then than it is now, 
when the psychology of child life has been reduced 
to something like a practical science. When Mary 
crossed the borderland which divided the ghosts from 
the substantial cruelties of life, it was too late, but it 
is important to remember through all these varying 
fortunes the peculiar quality of that romantic leaning 
which was cultivated as a virtue in her childhood. 
She was eminently the creature of her age, and in 
the narrative of her life we see reflected more perfectly 
than in that of greater contemporaries the fashions 
and the follies of English thought and English imagina- 
tion in the latter half of the eighteenth century. 



II 

Except for the penalties exacted by a propensity to 
melancholy and a rare intellectual precocity, Mary's 
early childhood was happy enough. If Bristol was 
" the dirtiest great shop " that Walpole ever saw, 
its merchant princes who grew rich on the purchase 
and sale of slaves knew how to make the most of 
their prosperity. The Minster House soon grew too 
small to satisfy the social needs of Captain Darby. 
Moreover it was a house ill suited by the irregularity 
of its construction for the entertainment of company 
on a large scale. The family moved accordingly into 
a larger house of more recent date, and here for the 
twilight that peeped with such fascination for Mary 
through the Gothic windows was substituted the 
healthier influence of broad daylight pouring through 
wider casements. At the same time the lavish equip- 
ment of the household provided the child with a new 
order of impressions, and her memory of this period 
in later life was associated with an elegant table upon 
which the regular appearance of foreign wines pro- 
claimed at once the taste and prosperity of her father, 
a bed of the richest crimson damask, dresses of fine 
cambric, silk upholstered furniture, and a holiday on 
Clifton Hill during the summer months. Among all 
these luxurious surroundings the daintiest object was 
the little Mary herself, and it was the prettiest sight 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 9 

in the world to see the child's large eyes grow wide 
over a lesson on the harpsichord or the recitation 
of an elegy. Sometimes she composed verses herself, 
and the facile doggerel was extolled with more 
generosity than wisdom by the tenderhearted mother 
and the reckless, prodigal father. When the mail 
packet from London arrived in Bristol she would go 
and watch them unload the parcels and hope there 
was one for her, as there pretty often was, for these 
fond parents indulged her caprices even to the tune 
of sending all the way to London for her clothes ; 
and in those days " The Flying Machine " itself could 
not do the distance from London to Bristol in less 
than " the amazingly short space of 24 hours if 
God permit." Not only fine clothes and accomplished 
manners were held requisite for Mary's education. 
In the year of her birth the More sisters had come 
to Bristol and founded a school in the neighbourhood 
of the Minster House. Their success enabled them 
a few years later to take a larger house in Park Street. 
Here they taught French, Reading, Writing, Arith- 
metic, Needlework and Dancing, and took in boarders. 
Mary Darby attended the school in the morning 
and was a fellow pupil with Priscilla Hopkins, who 
became the wife of the actor John Kemble. The 
Mores were sisters of the celebrated Hannah, whose 
lively writings and innumerable activities must be 
studied to gain a conception of the educational ideas 
of the time. How different was her idea of " a 
suitable education for each and Christianity for all " 
from that of the showier Amazons of learning in her 
own day — not to mention the elaborate pretensions of 
the modern Board School. Yet Hannah's practical 



lo PERDITA 

piety feared nothing from the blue assemblages of 
Mrs. Vesey or Mrs. Montague. Certainly in the 
course of her long life she changed some of her 
opinions, and towards its close she would have dis- 
approved of the views which allowed her sisters to 
take their whole school, including Mary Darby, to see 
Mr. Powel in a performance of " King Lear." 

It was Mary's first experience of the theatre, probably 
her first introduction to Shakespeare ; but while much 
of the original text was recited, the play had suffered 
considerable alteration. Mr. Garrick's versions were 
then the order of the day, and Garrick took more 
liberties with his text (with, no doubt; far greater 
excuse) than any actor of to-day. But Mary was too 
young to take account of such abstruse matters. For 
her the story was the main thing, and her heart ached 
for the sorrows of the aged Lear. Can we not see 
that eager face intent upon the tragic scenes ^ So 
keenly does she feel the situations, that she chafes at | 
the incompetence of Mrs. Fisher's Cordelia. Truly 
the actress was overweighted by the superior dramatic 
force of her companion. She ambled mildly through 
the part. She felt nicely about it, but the spark of 
her affection for her father glowed dimly even to the 
last. Hear her towards the close. Are not those 
accents too tame in which she cries : 

O look upon me, Sir, 

And hold your hand in blessing o'er me ; nay 

You must not kneel. 

Mary, child that she was, would have liked to jump 
from her seat upon the stage and say those words 
again as they should be said. The nobility of the 
thing fills her with a new kind of enthusiasm. What 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY ii 

are Pope's " Lines to the Memory of an Unfortunate 
Lady " compared with this ? When she comes home, 
she is silent, preoccupied ; and the questions of her 
family about Mr. Powel's Benefit performance receive 
scant answer. They expect her to be in a flutter of 
high spirits, to strike attitudes in imitation of the 
principal performers, but while they tease her for not 
showing more appreciation, the effect upon her of this 
first insight into the genius of drama is deep enough 
to escape altogether a superficial observation. 

And so far as their little daughter was concerned 
the observation of both her parents was indeed super- 
ficial. Captain Darby had not the time to understand 
his children, his wife had not the capacity ; both were 
content to accept the flattering comment aroused by 
Mary's beauty, without disturbing the fulness of their 
satisfaction by an unsparing examination of the character 
which underlay those graces. True she was impetuous, 
even wilful at times ; but the peccadilloes of obstinacy 
were more than compensated by gusts of affection 
which were enough to disarm any misgivings even in 
parents of sterner discipline than the Darbys. 

With a marriage contracted against the wishes of her 
parents Mrs. Darby had exhausted her stock of courage. 
She was between twenty and thirty years of age when 
for the agreeable importunities of numerous suitors, 
attracted more by the vivacity of her manner than by 
the formal beauty of her person, was substituted the 
practical problem of deciding between the virtues of 
a young gentleman of good family, genuinely if some- 
what lugubriously impressed with her charm, and the 
dashing advances of Captain Darby, who laid siege 
to her heart with all the natural artifices of an 



12 PERDITA 

adventurous spirit quickened by the ardour of a deep 
infatuation. That he was of Irish extraction (the 
name Darby having been substituted for that of 
McDermott on the acquisition of estates in Ireland 
by a previous generation) was no recommendation to 
her family ; that he was born American counted as 
a decided disqualification. Somerset people (and 
Mary's mother was born in Bridgewater) were not 
likely to minimise the dangers involved in an alliance 
with a sea captain whose home influence, whatever 
it may have been, must have been so remote from 
the lady's own. Reluctantly they succumbed to the 
fascination of his presence, and in the eagerness with 
which they listened to his spirited anecdotes about 
the glorious perils of the ocean lurked some dis- 
quietude. The usual arguments were advanced for 
dissuading the girl, with the usual result : the roving 
disposition of Captain Darby would not change in 
a week or a year ; to which her reply is, that she 
asks no more than to follow him in his wanderings ; 
little good ever came from wayward sentiment usurping 
the throne of reason ; her reply denies the right of 
appeal to reason in those who sought to marry her in 
the face of reason to one whom she could never love. 
The characters of the suitors decide the issue. The 
eligible young gentleman rests too solemnly upon his 
merits ; the spirit of courtship is a fountain sealed 
for one so imperturbably grave. Realising the vanity 
of his hopes he takes coach for Bristol and embarks on 
a merchant ship bound for a distant part of the globe, 
finding a kind of audacity in despair. He is never heard 
of again by the family. Soon after their marriage at 
Dunyatt, Somersetshire, Mary's parents settled at Bristol. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 13 

Little occurred to mar the serenity of their happiness 
until Mary entered upon her ninth year. If the 
husband's irrepressible flow of spirits sometimes tired 
the equanimity of his less sanguine wife, she knew how 
to console herself in reflecting on his generous nature 
and the ready pleasure which he showed in the welfare 
and happiness of his family. One day early in 1766 
Mary found her mother in tears. Her father was 
striding restlessly up and down the room. 

" 'Tis the height of folly," cried her mother between 
her sobs. " Reason, prudence, the aff^ections of your 
family all speak against the execution of so mad an 
enterprise. A perilous journey, and for what .'' To 
meet a treacherous death at the hands of savages ! " 

" If you would have me die in your company, 
Madam, you should come too." And the Captain 
glanced with a look of afl'ectionate humour and un- 
shaken purpose at his little daughter. " If you lack 
the courage, Mary will sail with me." 

The child made no answer. She had stolen to her 
mother's side and laid a timid hand upon her shoulder. 
Mrs. Darby began to cry anew, and with an impatient 
shrug the Captain left the room, whistling to himself. 
The next few days were a novel experience for Mary. 
She had never seen her parents openly at variance 
before. Something warned her that her father's decision 
was unalterable, and yet Mrs. Darby implored him 
with tears and entreaties to abandon his intentions, or 
at least to postpone their execution. Mary wondered 
what was the object of this journey and had not the 
courage to ask, until one day she found her father 
poring over a chart, and he took her on his knee and 
told her how he was going to a place on the other 



14 PERDITA 

side of the world where the coast was inhabited by- 
Eskimo Indians (" funny Httle people, like monkeys," 
he called them). He was going to teach them how 
to trade in the whales which they caught. He would 
make friends with the *' monkeys " and bring some 
home for Mary to see, and Mary was so well enter- 
tained by his lively descriptions of how he was going 
to build himself a hut in a wild forest and shoot game 
for his meals and take lessons in the Eskimo language 
from the chief of the tribe himself, that she forgot 
what the separation would mean for her mother, and 
began to clap her hands in dehght. As the plan 
became matured in Captain Darby's mind his absences 
from Bristol became more frequent, and to his wife's 
sorrow he always returned from a visit to London with 
fresh accounts of the favour with which his expedition 
/ was regarded in high quarters. Not only was it 
encouraged by the opinions of the Chancellor Lord 
Northington, who was Mary's godfather, but it received 
the approbation of Lord Chatham himself. The 
civilising mission of England had frequently been 
bound up with the foundation of lucrative industries, 
and the establishment of flourishing whale fisheries 
on the coast of Labrador under the control of England 
or her American colonies might prove no less productive 
than the Greenland fisheries. It was only a year since 
Government had erected a blockhouse in a small 
fort at Chateau Bay. This was garrisoned by an 
officer and twenty men from the Governor of New- 
foundland's ship, and a sloop of war was stationed 
here in the summer, no less to prevent encroachments 
from the French than to protect the merchants and 
their people from the Indians. Captain Darby's 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 15 

expedition was to be directed to the north of this 
region. 

England has always welcomed the services of ad- 
venturous men like Nicholas Darby, and Chatham's 
glowing denunciation of American taxation was recent 
enough still to linger agreeably in the ears of a man, 
who, although England had become the home of his 
election, was still an American by birth. What wonder 
then that the statesm^an's encouragement, added to 
that of the Earl of Bristol and other eminent persons 
whose advice was as readily given as their sympathy 
was enhsted, should have set spurs to the Captain's 
intentions. So occupied had he been with the details 
of the necessary preliminaries, that when the day came 
for him to depart he realised for the first time what 
this separation was costing himself no less than his 
wife ; and the words " I shall be back in two years " 
faltered on his lips as he took a hurried farewell of 
his family. The painter Morland has left many a 
scene of such farewells, in which the grief of the 
situation is mitigated by the charm of the figures 
represented in the picture. But '^ good-bye " meant 
even more in the eighteenth century than it does to-day, 
and it was no wonder if it took many weeks before 
Mrs. Darby recovered some of her spirits. The house 
was all the quieter for the buoyant nature of the man 
who had left it ; and to make the circumstances still 
more melancholy, her eldest son had been placed in 
a mercantile house in Leghorn shortly before his father's 
departure. 



Ill 

Captain Darby's letters were read with eagerness 
by his solitary wife. The spirited nature of their 
contents did not allay her apprehensions. Now she 
feared that he would suffer the consequences of in- 
different attention to his health in a climate of freezing 
coldness, now she shuddered at the dangers of his 
traffic with the native savages. He made his settlement 
on Seal Island in a spot as high up the river as a boat 
could go ; it consisted of his own house, a hut for his 
servants, and a workshop. In due time a fishing-stage 
was also erected, and it was not long before Mary and 
her two little brothers were listening to a description 
of the neighbouring Indians, their methods of extract- 
ing oil from the whales which they caught, and the 
barbarous habits of the women, whose love for their 
babies was suffered to co-exist with a revolting in- 
difference to the insanitary conditions in which they 
■ were reared. After some months had elapsed, however, 
Mary noticed that the eagerness with which her mother 
had opened her husband's letters began to abate. A 
new and unexplained sorrow began to appear in her 
face, and sometimes she would leave the mail packet 
unopened for more than a day after its arrival. The 
letters came, too, at rarer intervals, and even in the 
extracts with which Mrs. Darby continued to regale 
her children, appeared a note of haste and frigidity. 

i6 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 17 

The style grew more laconic, and at last a period of 
several months passed before once more the familiar 
seal aroused expectation of fresh news from Labrador. 

Fresh news indeed, but never had the reluctance 
with which Mrs. Darby proceeded to examine it been 
so fatally well justified. This time the curiosity of the 
children was allayed by no reading of extracts from 
the letter. Mrs. Darby shut herself up for several 
days, and even in the brief intervals in which she allowed 
her children to bid her good-night, the tears started 
from eyes worn with long weeping. With difficulty 
she informed them that their father was well ; but the 
welcome nature of these tidings was dashed with the 
bitter self-accusations which followed the announcement. 
Oh that she had been able to overcome her abhorrence 
of the great ocean, and accompanied her husband ! 
Prior to the arrival of this letter, a stranger had come 
to the house, while the family were still in a state of 
anxious suspense as to the origin of the Captain's long 
silence. He said he was an intimate friend of Mr. 
Darby, and had grave news to impart to his wife. 
Mary watched him wistfully as the servant showed 
him into her mother's private apartments. The 
burden of his message was not communicated to the 
child, who thought, when he had gone, her mother 
had never before looked so sad. A day later the 
letter was delivered, but the hopes roused by its 
arrival were but a source of further disappointment. 
Mrs. Darby went about like one distracted. Every 
fresh inquiry of Mary met with fresh evasion. One 
day when the child was playing with her wardrobe 
(she was always particularly fond of arranging her 
dresses) her mother bade her leave them aside, for 

2 



1 8 PERDITA 

they no longer belonged to her. Her father had 
given a bill of sale of his whole property, and to rescue 
him from his embarrassments his wife and children 
were by this sudden tide of misfortune compelled to 
change their manner of life from one of refinement 

/ and ease to one of coarse hardship and penury. For 
the mock tragedy of Lear which had so powerfully 
affected Mary's imagination but a little while ago was 
now substituted the cutting reality of actual misfortunes. 
People who had envied the prosperity of the Darbys 
were not slow to condemn the expensive style in which 
they had carried on their household. The illness and 
death of little William added sorrow to want, and 
the multiplied afflictions of the Darby family became a 
topic for commiseration at all the public receptions in 
Bristol. The humiliation of their condition was made 
profounder by the heights of fashionable splendour on 
which they had lived. Mrs. Darby took consolation 
in the friendship and kindly offices of a lady now the 
wife of a medical man, and formerly the widow of 
Sir Charles Erskine. She knew that Bristol gossip 
was busy with the retailing of her misfortunes, and 
she was content to live a life of seclusion. The world 
was a great deal wider than the confines of Bristol, 
and she felt the nature of her grief to be larger than 
that of the idle conversation which it provided in 
a narrow locality. 

In due time Mary was acquainted with the contents, 
or rather with some of the contents, of that last letter 

■' from her father. His scheme had failed. The Indians 
had risen and murdered three of his servants. His 
settlement was uprooted. In itself the enterprise was 
as reasonable as most ventures of the kind, nor was its 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 19 

failure due so much to a want of foresight as to the 
temperamental incapacity of Captain Darby for in- 
gratiating himself with the natives. Three years after 
his settlement had been abandoned, the traces of it 
were rediscovered by Captain Cartwright, an experienced 
traveller in Labrador, who succeeded in winning the 
confidence of the Eskimos and actually brought some 
of them to London. George III. stopped reviewing 
his troops to converse with the strange captain and 
his odd little companions. They were taken to a 
reception at Holland House and ultimately to Court, 
where they formed a pleasing diversion for the 
aristocracy, some of whom invited them to a fox 
hunt. But where the long patience of Cartwright 
succeeded, the restless impetuosity of Darby failed. 
He was at once too confident and too arrogant ; and, 
to do him justice, he credited the Eskimo Indian with 
as little cunning as he himself possessed. 

Mrs, Darby had lived in retirement for a year, when, 
in a letter of which the coldness chilled her no less 
than the contents agitated her, she was summoned to 
meet her husband in London. His message included 
a request that her children should accompany her. 
Probably he thought their presence would silence his 
wife's reproaches. It was autumn, and the leaves of 
the trees in Spring Gardens, where he was lodging, 
were turning gold. Confronted with his little Mary, 
now nearly ten years of age and tall enough to be 
twelve or thirteen, Darby broke down. The scene 
in its initial stages was indeed affecting enough ; 
but a sordid reality soon thrust itself between the 
sweets of reunion. Mrs. Darby had come armed 
with forgiveness for her erring husband. Again and 



20 PERDITA 

again she had blamed herself as the cause of his 
' infidelity. Had she accompanied him, all might have 
been different. In spite of the sorrow and pain which 
she expected from the interview, she had not been 
able to stifle the hope of its satisfactory issue. He 
had come back to her. Perhaps this other woman who 
had pushed her merciless way into his affections had 
betrayed him. Deeply she felt the bitterness of the 
humiliation which had been put upon her, but she 
had prayed for heart of grace to disregard it in the 
recognition of the blessings bestowed by a providential 
reconciliation. 

But no demands were made upon her power of 
forgiveness. In place of the contrition which her 
fancy had painted, she was confronted with Captain 
Darby's cold defiance. Not only was he utterly in- 
different to the impropriety of living with a mistress, 
but he was devoid of all delicacy in the air with which 
he announced his immediate intentions to his innocent 
- wife. Mary and her brother were to be placed in a 
school near London ; a suitable allowance would be 
provided to enable Mrs. Darby to live in a private 
family ; as for himself he purposed shortly returning 
to America. Tears and entreaties seemed only to 
increase his obduracy. He grew impatient at the 
heat which had escaped into the conversation, and 
Mrs. Darby's leave-taking partook almost of the 
nature of a dismissal. She never indulged another 
hope in her husband's return. Soon afterwards she 
took up her abode in a clergyman's family in Chelsea 
with the object of being near Meribah Lorrington's 
school, at which her children were placed. 

A queerer couple than Mrs. Lorrington and her 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 21 

father, Mr. Hull, it would have been hard to discover, 
even in a town offering such diversity of persons and 
characters as London. Hull had been master of an 
academy at Earl's Court. He was now a widower, 
and aided his daughter in the instruction of pupils at 
Chelsea. If he did not teach them much, he succeeded 
in inspiring them with a well-founded terror of his 
appearance, for he wore a long silvery beard and a 
kind of Persian robe which invested him with the 
air of a necromancer. His conversation was stern 
rather than erudite, and he was of the Anabaptist 
persuasion. Had he been born in the first half of 
the sixteenth instead of the first half of the eighteenth 
century, there is some ground for suspecting that he 
would have become a follower of John of Leyden and 
danced about naked in that *' city of God " which 
became the scene of excesses as bad as any that have 
ever disfigured the annals of religious fanaticism. As 
it was, he was a mixture of fantastic affectation and 
intolerant ineptitude which inspired Mary Darby with 
a lively disgust. For his daughter, on the contrary, 
she conceived a warm affection. Meribah represented 
for her something very grand and alluringly tragic, a 
kind of widowed Cordelia whose sorrows were made 
all the more pathetic by the ridiculous neighbourhood 
of a sham Lear. In blue learning she towered above 
the Mores, for she knew Latin besides French and 
Italian, and possessed a nodding acquaintance with 
the stars besides a ready familiarity with the Multi- 
plication Tables. As if to make feminine atonement 
for her masculine intelligence, her painting on silk 
showed a refinement of fancy that was a model for 
all the young ladies in the kingdom. The tragic 



22 PERDITA 

element in her composition was an irrepressible passion 
for drink, engendered, as she told her little friend one 
night in a burst of confidence (they slept in the same 
chamber) by the despair and solitude of widowhood. 
What a companionship — this of the tender, precocious 
child and the clever, half crazy woman. Think of 
Meribah and Mary looking across the Chelsea fields 
from the casement window of their bedroom on a 
summer's night, the governess babbling in her drunken 
way of the stars, and Mary fondly composing verses 
on the moon in the style of the late Mr. William 
' Shenstone. They used to read to each other after 
school hours. As Meribah's intemperance gained 
ground, she clung with increased tenacity to the 
friendship of her favourite pupil. She now frequently 
entered the class-room in a state of intoxication. 
Parents began to withdraw their children. The 
financial status of the school became hopelessly em- 
barrassed, and Mary had only been a year and two 
months in her new surroundings when the establish- 
ment was broken up. She was removed to Mrs. Leigh's 
- seminary in Battersea, her brother remaining in Chelsea 
under the care of a clergyman. 

In place of the strange companionship of Mrs. 
Lorrington she now enjoyed the healthier intimacy 
of Mrs. Leigh's daughter, a girl but a few years 
older than herself, and suited by the amiability of 
her disposition to be an agreeable playmate. Mrs. 
Darby, isolated as she was from daily intercourse 
with her children, never lost sight of them for long. 
Every Sunday evening Mary went to Chelsea to 
drink tea with her mother. Among the visitors she 
met on these occasions was a captain in the British 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 23 

Navy, a friend of her father's. Conceive the high 
state of perturbation into which Mrs. Darby was 
plunged when the gallant officer suddenly confronted 
her with a formal proposal for her daughter's hand. 
How old, she asked him, did he think the child to 
be ? The inflammable youth had probably never ^ 
considered her age until this moment, and found it 
difficult to believe that she had not yet reached her 
thirteenth birthday. His attentions had in no way 
disconcerted Mary ; she had been accustomed to 
flattery almost from her infancy, and so little idea 
had she of love as a practical factor in life, that she 
had already wasted many hours in composing poetical 
phantasies on love. 

They were pubHshed soon after her marriage in a 
volume of poems, remarkable chiefly for their profuse ■ 
punctuation, although here and there are lines showing 
that she had studied her models, even at that early 
age, with discrimination. Her facility for literary ex- 
pression intensifies rather than helps to diminish the 
obscurities of her character as a child ; for while these 
effiasions were intimate enough to make her con- 
ceal them from her mother until shortly before 
their appearance in print, the cocksureness of their 
form bore all the traces of a skilled technique in 
verse such as one might expect to find in an ac- 
complished writer of at least double her age. The 
sentiments of the poems were in all probability no 
more original than the language in which they were 
expressed, but the fact that she spent so much time 
in versifying is an indication of innocence rather than 
of guile, and it came easily to her to sing the praises 
of retirement " Far from op'ra, park or play," to 



24 PERDITA 

rebuke the youths of " this licentious age," to senti- 
mentalise on Charity and to sigh gracefully after a 
virtuous husband in a poem of many stanzas. 

But while she is thus harmlessly engaged in a 
schoolgirl's recreation with more than a schoolgirl's 
dexterity — behold a bold captain is actually on his 
knees in the act of proposing to a mere child. Had 
he seen her poems he would have adhered obstinately 
to his belief that she was not so young as her mother 
wished to paint her. And who could have blamed 
him ? In some confusion he now took his leave, but 
not without expressing a hope that on his return to 
England (for he was going on an expedition for two 
years) Miss Darby might still be disengaged. A few 
months after his departure came the news that his ship 
had foundered at sea, and that he had perished in the 
disaster. And what does Mary when she hears the 
sad tidings ? Does she blush, or faint or cry ^ Not 
a bit of it. She is a child with ah insatiable love of 
making verses. She meditates upon a new poem : 
*' To one who perished gallantly at sea." 



IV 

Mary's sojourn at Mrs. Leigh's seminary was inter- 
rupted by the consequences of her father's reckless 
living and of his passion for speculative adventure. 
He had failed in Labrador ; but failure with him 
set spurs to another attempt in a similar direction. 
In the meanwhile his remittances to his wife be- 
came less regular, Mrs. Darby took alarm at the 
situation. Few occupations were open to women ; 
neither her own bringing up nor the subsequent 
luxuries which she had enjoyed in the early years 
of her married life had tended to cultivate in her 
a capacity for earning a livelihood. But necessity 
stared her in the face, and, encouraged by the advice 
of her friends, she started a boarding-school of her 
own. A house at Little Chelsea was hired and suitably 
furnished, assistants were engaged, and at the age of 
fourteen Mary passed from the subserviency of a 
pupil into the commanding consequence of a teacher. 
Her literary skill was now directed to the choice of 
suitable passages in prose and verse for the study 
of her pupils. She also superintended their wardrobes, 
and read sacred and moral lessons to them on Saints' 
days and Sunday evenings. 

Soon after the establishment of the new school, 
a dramatic rencounter with her former mistress both 
excited a genuine compassion and heightened her 

25 



26 PERDITA 

sense of the new importance with which the inequalities 
of life had invested her. Drunk, dishevelled, her 
dress torn and filthy, an old bonnet lurching forward 
so as almost to conceal her features, Mrs. Lorrington 
appeared one summer evening at the gate of the 
school-house. Her groans attracted the attention of 
Mary, who was seated at the window. Without 
knowing whom she was befriending, she hastened to 
the forlorn creature's aid. Meribah burst into tears. 
" Don't you know me ^ " she cried. Mary never 
forgot the look of misery and wounded pride which 
came into those familiar eyes as they met hers. Mrs. 
Darby was out, and the girl took her old teacher 
into the house, dressed her, comforted her as best 
she could, and entreated her to say how she had 
come into so piteous a plight and where she might 
be found in the future in case of need. But Mrs. 
Lorrington was either too much ashamed or too 
much intoxicated to provide any information. Perhaps 
she thought she was once more the mistress of her 
own seminary, and regarded Mary's solicitude as 
presumption in a pupil. She promised to call again 
in a few days, and with sorrow Mary watched the 
melancholy attempt at self-possession with which she 
took her exit. 

The fortunes of Mrs. Darby and her daughter 
began to mend as soon as the merits of her establish- 
ment became known, and it was not long before she 
had a dozen pupils. Some strain was put upon her 
powers of activity in supervising their requirements, 
but when she had time for reflection she enjoyed the 
satisfaction aflForded by a success which gave every 
promise of continuance. Her personal happiness had 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 27 

been irretrievably ruined through the passionate follies 
of her husband ; but her sense of duty to her daughter 
had been quickened by misfortune, and in the know- 
ledge that she was fulfilling that duty both practically 
and honourably in employing Mary to aid in the 
development of her school, she found solace. No 
sooner, however, had her mind recovered some of 
its composure, than her husband, who had unexpectedly 
returned from another visit to America, once more 
made havoc of her cherished projects. On the dis- 
covery that his wife was earning her livelihood, the 
spendthrift Darby's indignation knew no bounds. The ' 
appeal to reason always infuriated the man ; his 
tyrannical nature completely shut his eyes to the fact 
that by his conduct he had forfeited all claim to be 
consulted as to the best course for his family to pursue. 
At the mention of creditors he stamped ; they could 
afford to wait, did wait to be paid by others, a doubt 
of whose solvency gave far better ground for anxiety 
than his own. With the acquisition of fresh resources 
his pride was once more aflame. Temporary em- 
barrassment had but added fuel to that smouldering 
fire. He would not, no, he would not, suffer his 
wife and daughter one minute longer to be associated 
with so humiliating a life as was involved in the 
conduct of a school. Mrs. Darby's judgment, naturally 
cool, was clouded by the vehemence of his protests. 
She trembled under the uncontrolled fury of his out- 
bursts, and her weakness for the affection that had 
once been hers condoned a submission to his will 
which her intellect could not justify. After a brief 
and successful career of eight months her school was 
closed. 



28 PERDITA 

Having removed the cause of his own humiliation, 
Captain Darby now proceeded cahnly to humiliate his 
wife by living publicly with his mistress in Green 
Street, Grosvenor Square, while a suitable lodging 
for Mrs. Darby and Mary was engaged in the neigh- 
bourhood of Marylebone. The effrontery of his be- 
haviour was all the more impudent for the amazing 
candour which accompanied it ; for he would call 
frequently upon his family and take walks in the 
fields near Marylebone with Mary. He would speak 
of his own failing on these occasions with the detached 
air of a sympathetic spectator contemplating the private 
misfortunes of a friend ; life was indeed unscrupulous 
and exacting in its demands upon human nature ; 
how infinitely distressing was the situation in which 
he found he was placed ; time and obligations had 
cemented an attachment for his Elenor which could 
not be dissolved without making ample provision for 
her ; it was very hard for everybody concerned. 
Sometimes he gazes with a grotesque mixture of 
pity and hatred at his daughter — as if upon her sex 
lay the heavy burden of his own misspent life ; but 
the ugly humour passes in a flash of careless gaiety as 
they roam through the fields, and he draws a comic 
picture of the Eskimo settlement, impersonating 
the chief of the tribe and rolling his eyes horribly 
while he improvises a rapid speech in their jargon, 
until the wondering Mary is overwhelmed in a tempest 
of laughter. 

One day they call at Lord Northington's in Berkeley 
Square, and Mary is presented as the goddaughter 
of his father, the late Chancellor. Captain Darby 
dines at his lordship's house a few days later to 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 29 

discuss his new projects ; and when the nobleman 
pays him a compHment upon the subject of his 
daughter's beauty, yet another depth in her father's 
bottomless vanity is stirred. He goes away reflecting 
less on the business he had come to discuss than on 
the necessity of putting the finishing points to his 
Mary's education. In pursuit of this object she is 
placed at Oxford House, Marylebone. Soon after- 
wards Captain Darby again leaves England, taking 
a theatrical farewell of his family and scaring his wife 
into new apprehensions by the fierceness of his parting 
injunction. " Take care that no dishonour falls upon 
my daughter," he cried, turning back to take a last 
look at Mary on the threshold of the door. " If she 
is not safe at my return, 1 will annihilate you." 

How came it that the thought entered his head ? 
Had the compliments of young Northington aroused 
his suspicions ? Perhaps the reckless youth of the 
nobleman's father, with whom he had been on terms 
of intimacy, had come into his mind when he was in 
the company of the son. The elder Henley's death 
was recent in his memory, and he had not forgotten 
the melancholy humour with which the old man, who 
had become crippled with gout, had exclaimed shortly 
before his decease, " If I had known these legs were 
one day to carry a Chancellor, I had taken better care 
of them when I was a lad." 

At Mrs. Hervey's academy Mary's taste in litera- 
ture took a new departure. She read Shakespeare 
and Rowe, and her interest in dramatic poetry rose 
high above her former delight in melancholy elegiacs. 
She burned to compose a tragedy, and frequently Mrs, 
Hervey surprised her in the retirement of her chamber 



30 PERDITA 

in the evening in the act of impersonating the heroines 
of the plays she had been reading during the day. 
The character of Jane Shore appealed to her with 
singular force, not the Jane Shore of history, '* the 
merriest harlot in the realm," but the Jane Shore of 
Nicholas Rowe's tragedy, in which the lady appears as 
divinely repentant, persecuted to death by scheming 
Gloucester for her loyalty to the cause of the little 
prince whose royal father had snatched her — a mere 
child — from a devoted husband's side. So impressed 
was Mrs. Hervey with these exhibitions of her talent, 
that it was not long before the ballet-master of Covent 
Garden, who taught dancing at Oxford House, was 
singing her praises to Thomas Hull, the friend of 
Shenstone and the actor-manager of Covent Garden 
Theatre. 

Hull made an appointment for her to come and 
recite to him. He smiled dubiously when the 
girl was introduced to him. Long experience as an 
actor had taught him to place little faith in other 
people's recommendations of genius in the bud. Of 
course there were exceptions ; about ten years before, 
a little German boy of no more than eight years had 
astounded London by his performances on the harpsi- 
chord ; he was now about the same age as Miss 
Darby, and was said to be earning money by writing 
Italian operas. But this was music — of which Hull 
knew nothing. If he smiled at the youthfulness of 
Mary, he could not help laughing when in answer 
to his inquiry as to what she would recite, she 
calmly replied, " Some passages from Mr. Rowe's 
' Jane Shore.' " Hull settled himself in an easy 
attitude of attention, and the trial began. She started 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 31 

with the description of her altered beauty in a voice 
of slowly rising sadness. As she stood there, radiant 
with the pride of her own juvenile beauty, there was 
something pathetically incongruous in the convinced 
melancholy with which she recited the lines : 

No roses bloom upon my fading cheek, 
No laughing graces wanton in my eyes ; 

but the smile that lingered in the actor's face vanished 
at the sharp note of pain in her voice as she continued : 

But haggard grief, lean-looking sallow care 
And pining discontent, a rueful train, 
Dwell on my brow, all hideous and forlorn. 

Not only were the lines recited with appropriate 
dramatic force, but with a precision that, made Hull 
admit that she spoke them almost as if she might 
have written them. He tried her in other passages : 
in the appeal from the importunate addresses of Lord 
Hastings ; in that scene of desolation when the door 
of her dear friend is shut upon her ; in the speech on 
the fate of the little princes. His admiration grew 
with each experiment. How had she come by this 
ease of diction ? What was the secret of her impene- 
trable self-possession ? He bade her recite the passage 
in which one false step in a woman is described as 
bringing in its train irretrievable ruin, and waited 
eagerly to hear how she would speak the line : 

She sets, like stars that fall, to rise no more. 

Her intonation was perfect. Hull asked to hear 
nothing further : she would of course need practice 
in gesture and familiarity with the stage, but the 



32 PERDITA 

distinction of her presence and the quality of her 
voice enabled him to speak of her ambition in terms 
of warm encouragement. 

It needed more, however, than the approval of Mr. 
Hull to satisfy Mrs. Darby of the wisdom of advising 
her daughter to adopt the stage as a career. Certainly 
some means of gaining a livelihood must be discovered, 
for Darby's second venture in America was faring 
no better than his first, and from an economical point 
of view no profession could be more precarious than 
dependence for the necessaries of life on that quarter. 
To resume her school after so recent a disestablishment 
was next to impossible. Again and again she regretted 
the weakness which had allowed her to submit in this 
matter to her husband's tyrannical demands. But the 
perils and temptations of so public a career as that of 
the stage were grave arguments against its adoption 
by her daughter. If Mrs. Darby said nothing, her 
thoughts were none the less busy as she listened to 
Mary's delighted account of her visit to Mr. Hull. 
But the bolt of the girl's ambitions had already been 
loosed ; and it gained strength in its passage in the 
course of that memorable evening spent soon afterwards 
at No. 5, Adelphi Terrace, Mr. Garrick's town house. 
Imagine Mary's excitement when after much discussion 
the actor, then at the zenith of his fame, actually 
proposed to play Lear, one of his greatest impersona- 
f tions, to the Cordelia of Miss Darby. In her mind's 
eye she already saw the crowded faces in the audience, 
and the huzzas sounded in her ears. A few years 
ago in Bristol she had envied Mrs. Fisher when she 
saw her play Cordelia to the Lear of Garrick's pupil. 
But now here was the master himself offering to pay 




From an engfra\mg bj J. Conde, alter a miniature by R. Cosway. 
MELANIA (MARY ROBINSON). 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 23 

a girl of scarce fifteen the greatest public compliment 
within his power. 

At the first words she spoke, Garrick's attention ' 
was riveted on her. Years had flown over his head 
since the death of his favourite Mrs. Gibber. " Trae- 
edy is dead on one side," he had exclaimed when 
they had brought him the news ; and now as he 
listened to Mary Darby it seemed to him that the 
haunting beauty of the dead lady's voice lived again 
in the syllables that fell from the child's lips. 

Garrick was close on sixty when he first made the 
acquaintance of his young pupil. But she was not 
more youthful in her gaiety than he. Indeed in the 
temper of his spirits he was the younger of the two. 
Or was it the habitual gravity of Mary that challenged 
all the mirth in his nature to its surface ? He made 
her sing to him the favourite ballads of the day, 
danced minuets with her and used every opportunity 
to liberate her, in her own interest, from the fetters 
of self-consciousness. His " prodigious play of eye " 
both attracted and awed her. Sometimes her gravity 
irritated him. He suspected she could be roguish 
enough when the whim took her, and he repeatedly 
urged upon her the necessity of putting the whole 
of her nature into her art. It was this power of 
projecting all the mysterious fascination of his per- 
sonality into the most different r61es that made Kitty 
Clive once exclaim as she watched him from the wings 
of the theatre : " Damn him ! He could act a gridiron." 

In order to quicken his pupil's sense of the value 
of reality, to free her vision from the cloud of super- 
ficial illusion in which the casual playgoer is wrapped, 
he recommended her to visit the theatre as much as 

3 



34 PERDITA 

possible ; for the jperformer, acting, in the high sense 
of the word, could only begin where the accompanying 
consciousness that this was " acting " left off ; there 
could be no perfect illusion for the spectator so long 
as the player was hampered by the illusion of an 
artificial barrier between himself and the audience. 
In obedience to Mr. Garrick's instructions Mrs. 
Darby and her daughter now attended the theatre 
frequently, and gratefully accepted the oifer of rooms 
in Southampton Buildings, Chancery Lane, which was 
made by the lawyer Samuel Cox at the suggestion of 
Garrick himself. Thus they were situated within an 
easy distance of Drury Lane, and the venerable and 
respected character of their host oflFered some solace 
to the mother, who began to be tortured by new 
/ anxieties as to the safety of her daughter. It was all 
very well to repose in the security offered by the fact 
that Hannah More herself had added respectability 
to theatrical life by her intimacy with the Garricks 
and her boundless enthusiasm for Mr. Garrick's per- 
formances. But Hannah was nearly thirty years of 
age, and the remoteness of her own profession from 
that of the stage placed no restrictions on the liberty 
with which she could afford to express her opinion. 
In the meanwhile the gossip of the town had centred 
in the circumstances of the recent fracas in Vauxhall, 
where a party of young libertines (they were described 
in the newspapers of the time as " Macaronies ") had 
molested the beautiful Mrs. Hartley. And Mrs. 
Hartley was an actress. The parting threat of her 
husband added terror to Mrs. Darby's reflections and 
recurred to her memory with haunting frequency. 
She had only too good reason to believe that Captain 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 35 

Darby did not talk only at random about the profli- 
gacy of the age. Her fears were soon augmented 
by actual experience. 

For several nights in succession an unknown officer 
in the box occupied by the Darby party at Drury 
Lane Theatre had pursued Mary with embarrassing 
attentions. He had been observed hurrying restlessly 
up and down outside Southampton Buildings after 
their return from the playhouse. One morning Mary 
presented her mother with a letter which had just 
been delivered to her by a female servant. The 
careless air with which the girl handed her the note 
little prepared Mrs. Darby for the nature of its 
contents. It was an offer of marriage from the son 
of a lady of distinguished birth and position in society : 
the writer had heard of the young lady's intention 
of going upon the stage ; Cupid had forced the pen 
into his hand to protest against so perilous an under- 
taking; his heart was deeply engaged ; he was sensible 
how ill-considered might appear the sudden nature 
of this declaration with so little to encourage him in 
the hope of its favourable reception ; but the open 
quality of his disposition rebelled at the notion of 
permitting their common friend (he named an acquaint- 
ance of the Darbys') to effect an introduction without 
first apprising them of the motive with which he 
sought it. 

Mrs. Darby admired the candour of the letter, 
but when she tried to ascertain what effect it had 
exercised upon her daughter, Mary began tripping 
about the room and singing. It was in vain that 
her mother bade her be serious, and complained that 
her head was too full of these stage matters. " My 



:^6 PERDITA 

mother married not so early. Why should I ? " 
said the girl at last, to which Mrs. Darby answered 
that her mother was never so giddy as she. Certainly 
the introduction of the lovesick Captain which followed 
soon after the delivery of the letter served as an 
occasion for an outburst of scornful hilarity as soon as 
his back was turned. Was he not handsome enough, 
asked Mrs. Darby sharply. " Oh yes, handsome," 
sighed Mary. Did he fail in accompHshments ? " Oh, 
he's all accomplishment," the girl assented, and then 
began to laugh at the mixture of embarrassment and 
amorous solicitude which had marked his behaviour 
on being presented to her. Mrs. Darby was vexed ; 
she constantly twitted her daughter with her growing 
absorption in everything to do with the stage. No 
suitor, she supposed, would stand a reasonable chance 
of being accepted unless he were an actor. Or did 
she think to turn the head of Mr. Garrick himself ? 
'Twas lucky he was married to such a clever wife. 
But the taunting humour was short-lived. The 
friendly introducer of the lovesick Captain arrives one 
day with a face full of foreboding. He must see Mrs. 
Darby for a few minutes in private. On his departure 
the fond mother rushes back to the room where Mary 
is waiting for some fresh tidings on which to expend 
her merriment. The look of consternation on her 
mother's face warns her that something grave has 
passed. It is some minutes before Mrs. Darby can 
speak ; she is completely unnerved and cries like a 
child, clinging with renewed vehemence to her Mary 
at each paroxysm of tears. What does it all mean ^ 
Mary listens attentively to catch the words that fall 
between the sobs from Mrs. Darby's lips ; the girl 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 37 

kisses her mother's hands and seeks to offer consolation 
with an air of detached affection as if she herself had 
no concern in the source of all those tears. She 
soon picks up the thread of her mother's disconnected 
story. The friendly introducer of the Captain has a 
conscience which has unexpectedly reared its head and 
urged its owner to warn the Darbys against the 
artifices of his lovesick associate. The Captain is \ 
married ; his wife, young and amiable, away from the 
town on a visit to friends ; there was no telling what 
course the ardour of his infatuation might induce him 
to pursue. Mary smiles at the passing memory of a 
comedy in which the stratagems of the amorous hero 
in pursuit of the loved object are divertingly portrayed. 
*' I never loved him," she says simply to the humbled 
mother, who is reduced to taking comfort in the 
thought that perhaps after all her daughter is not only 
clever but also wise. 

Unfortunately for the poor lady the sources of her 
anxiety were multiphed almost daily. Mary's frequent 
appearance in public made her beauty the theme of 
public discussion. Playgoers soon learned that she 
was the pupil of Mr, Garrick, who was training her 
in the part of Cordelia. It was impossible to evade 
all the numerous introductions which were forced upon 
her. The artful Captain, unaware that his real character 
had been exposed, persisted in besieging Miss Darby 
with letters imploring an explanation of her coldness. 
To give that explanation would have involved a duel 
between the friends, and when Mrs. Darby's consterna- 
tion at the disclosure of the circumstances had subsided, 
she could not help crediting the chivalrous conduct of 
the man who betrayed his friend with sentimental 



38 PERDITA 

motives of his own. In the meanwhile Mary smiled 
her way through the importunities of her suitors, her 
heart touched neither by the extravagant addresses of 
an aged gentleman of splendid fortune, nor by the 
obvious confusion which the sight of her at the 
window of her drawing-room wrought in the bosom 
of the young lawyer who lived in the opposite house. 

" Have you not noted," she remarked to her mother, 
" how this young man bows or turns away as if to 
hide some emotion when I approach the drawing-room 
window ? Why should his pale face redden at the 
sight of me ? I do not blush at myself when I practise 
my lines before the mirror." 

" Have you already forgotten your father's warning .''" 
Mrs. Darby answered. " Oh that you were once 
well married ! " 

Then she walked to the windows and herself pulled 
up the shutters. From that day, by her orders, they 
were never to be lowered. 



V 

Mr. Wayman the attorney was a friend of Mr. Cox. 
This circumstance, added to the merits of a disposition 
at once grave and cheerful, had secured for him a 
warm place in Mrs. Darby's esteem. He was a 
bachelor, under forty, earnest in the pursuit of his 
profession, agreeable in conversation, studiously polite 
rather than impetuously chivalrous in his behaviour 
towards women. There were moments when in the 
society of others the gravity of Mr. Wayman's ex- 
pression was replaced by a transient sadness, as if 
his mind unconsciously reverted to some memory of 
previous sorrow. Mrs. Darby noted these moods in 
her friend with curious sympathy. Some early dis- 
appointment, she fancied, must be the source of their 
recurrence. She thought regretfully of the deserving 
young lover whom she herself had rejected for the 
dazzling fascination of Captain Darby. What had 
become of him ? From the day that he had set sail 
from Bristol, not a word had been heard of him. 
The disparity of age between her daughter and Mr. 
Wayman arrested all serious thought of their union. 
But for this consideration she would have liked to 
regard Mr. Wayman as a possible son-in-law. 

Shortly after the altercation between mother and 
daughter on the subject of the youth who lived in the 
opposite house, Mr. Wayman proposed an excursion 

39 



40 PERDITA 

party to Greenwich. Mrs. Darby with some show of 
reluctance consented. The day fixed was the Sunday 
following their conversation, the place, the Star and 
Garter Hotel. Two carriages were engaged. Mr. 
Wayman, who undertook the supervision of the 
arrangements, drove in the company of the Darbys, 
the other carriage containing the rest of the little party 
started in advance. The warmth of the September 
day, freshened by the brisk pace at which the horses 
trotted, and the unfeigned pleasure of the ladies in 
the expedition, made Mr. Wayman more than usually 
talkative. Mrs. Darby admired the justice of his 
observations on the landscape through which they 
were passing, no less than the wisdom of his remarks 
on the agitation in the American Colonies, nor did 
she conceal her satisfaction at the admiring glances 
which Mr. Wayman directed at her daughter ; and 
truly Mary had never looked more bewitching than 
on this day in her " nightgown " of pale blue lustring, 
and her chip hat trimmed with ribbons of the same 
colour. 

On their arrival at the Star and Garter the carriage 
door was immediately opened from without, but on 
recognising who it was that had proffered his services 
so eagerly, a look of surprise, almost of indignation, 
appeared in Mrs. Darby's face. Mary blushed as she 
alighted on the arm of the stranger, and after a moment 
of hesitation Mr. Wayman formally introduced his 
friend to the ladies. It was the young lawyer whose 
singular behaviour at the window of the house opposite 
their own had been a source of mirth to Mary, and 
of new anxiety to her mother. He had come in the 
company of a respectable young married couple, the 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 41 

husband having been his schoolmate at Harrow. When 
the first shock of their encounter with the young stranger 
had subsided, Mrs. Darby and her daughter could not 
but feel that his manners were superior and his 
conversation agreeable. The languor of convalescence 
(for he was recovering from a recent illness) added 
a charm of interest to features more than ordi- 
narily handsome ; nor did the deference which he 
paid to the opinions of Mr. Wayman fail to extort 
approbation, however reluctant, from Mrs. Darby. It 
was to her that he mainly addressed his conversation 
when he was not appealing to the superiority of Mr. 
Wayman's judgment on the topics of the day. Of 
Mary he took little apparent notice, except to attend 
to her comforts at the table. On several occasions 
he attempted to draw his schoolfriend and his wife 
into the conversation, but their natural interest in each 
other and the easy contentment felt by both in the mere 
circumstances of the party tended to liberate them from 
the responsibilities of expressing many opinions. Soon 
the talk of the others fell on Mr. Garrick, and from 
Mr. Garrick on the theatrical profession. 

" I cannot help thinking," said the young man, 
" that the home of great eloquence ought rather to be 
the pulpit than the stage. Of course the attractions 
of the theatre are manifold, but when I think of the 
added good to humanity which Dr. Blair might do had 
he the power of Mr. Garrick, I regret that the great 
actor should not have chosen the Church for the 
exhibition of his talents." 

Mrs. Darby had scarcely time to concur in the 
speaker's sentiments before they were subjected to the 
criticism of her daughter. 



42 PERDITA 

*' Were you to confine the exercise of eloquence, sir, 
to the pulpit, the tragedies of our great writers would 
never find a hearing. Would that be no loss to 
humanity ? " 

Mr. Wayman hastened (with Mrs. Darby's per- 
mission) to communicate her daughter's intention of 
adopting the stage career. Reluctantly his friend 
turned, to face the young lady who had been so swift 
to demur to his opinions. 

" My words were not intended as a personal 
challenge," he had the courage to stammer. He would 
have liked to add that the very fact just communicated 
to him put new strength into his conviction, but 
his self-assurance bent before the bright glance in 
Mary's eyes, and he was sensible of a debt to Mr. 
Wayman for the ready tact with which he now 
assumed the helm of the debate. When they had 
dined they strolled in the Park. The young husband 
and wife were inseparable, the stranger walked by the 
side of Mrs. Darby, and Mr. Wayman began a lively 
discourse on " King Lear " with Mary. So the afternoon 
wore into evening, and when the ladies again took 
their places in the carriage, it was proposed and accepted 
that this agreeable expedition should be repeated before 
long. 

On the journey back to London Mr. Wayman 
spoke warmly of the many good qualities of his friend. 
His health had recently been a source of some anxiety, 
he said, and it was at the doctor's advice that he had 
decided to remain a few days at Greenwich for the 
benefit of the air. Mrs. Darby's antipathy to the 
young man had melted before the geniality of his 
presence, and if she had greeted him with a look of 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 43 

hauteur when on their arrival he had opened the door 
of the carriage, she had known how to efface the effects 
of her sternness by a smile as he closed the door and 
bade them a ceremonious farewell. She was accustomed 
to change her impressions of people rapidly, and felt, 
all the more from Mr. Wayman's account of his 
virtues, that she had done this young man an 
injustice. 

*' Tom has but one fault," said Wayman at the end 
of his panegyric (and here he smiled with some humour 
at Mary), — " he is distracted with his admiration for 
a certain young lady. And were I his age," he added 
in an outburst of candour, "my judgment might well 
be no cooler than his." 

" You have little reason as yet to be oppressed with 
the weight of your age," said Mrs. Darby. But Mr. 
Wayman only sighed. 

" Sometimes I cannot help envying Tom," he said. 
" Youth is a precious gift if we only use it wisely. 
And this young man has everything yet to hope from 
life. He has the ability to be an ornament to his 
profession without enduring the necessity of amassing 
money. Rich uncles, they say, only die and leave 
their fortunes to their nephews in the pages of fiction. 
But here is a nephew who will probably inherit as 
much as thirty thousand pounds from an uncle who 
already shows his generosity by giving him a handsome 
allowance. Prospects like these are apt to shake the 
composure of the poor. And yet Mr. Goldsmith's 
village preacher counted himself passing rich with 
forty pounds a year ! Do you remember the poem ? " 

Of course Mary remembered the poem. Its senti- 
ments had inspired her own when at an absurdly early 



44 PERDITA 

age she had already composed her " Thoughts on 
Retirement." One may be quite sure that she had 
already availed herself of every poetic advantage in 
the change of circumstances brought about by her 
father's experiments in America ; and Goldsmith's 
sentimental invectives against luxury had provided 
the girl with a spiritual luxury which helped her to 
regard the sudden fall in their style of living with a 
kind of melancholy satisfaction. But poverty with a 
Darby was at the most an acquired taste, and with 
Mary, the maker of verses, it received a kind of 
literary patronage which in no way deterred her from 
indulging a taste for luxuries whenever the circum- 
stances permitted. Mr. Goldsmith would have lost 
patience if he could have seen the exquisitely dressed 
young lady (the very opposite of that simplicity which 
he extolled) declaiming his lines with all the airs 
and more than all the graces of the deepest conviction ; 
and she said the lines so beautifully that Mr. Wayman 
forgot about Tom and listened with rapture, bidding 
her remember more and more as the carriage neared 
the metropolis. 

A few days later Tom presented himself at York 
Buildings, Villars Street, the new lodging to which 
the Darbys had removed. Finding Mrs. Darby alone, 
he took the opportunity of acquainting her with the 
state of his affections, preferring the open expression 
of his feelings, even at the cost of some embarrass- 
ment, to what he termed " the ignominy of clandestine 
intrigue." Mrs. Darby expressed her gratitude for 
his sincerity ; at the same time she could give him no 
assurance as to the possibilities of success in his suit. 

" I could not hope for any such assurance, Madam," 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 45 

said Tom. " All I ask is leave to prove the extent 
of my devotion. Miss Darby's superior merits should 
make her difficult in the choice of a husband. What 
right have I, a stranger, to lay claim to that great 
distinction ? I beg you will not mention the subject 
of our conversation to her. Let an active but silent 
devotion plead my cause." 

A sudden misfortune to the Darby s provided the 
lover with an opportunity of making his words good. 
The increase of smallpox in the second half of the 
eighteenth century had discredited the value of inocula- 
tion in the popular mind. More than fifty years had 
passed since Lady Mary Wortley Montagu had 
introduced the Turkish custom into England, and 
while its services were identified with the decrease 
in the disease observed at the beginning of its adoption, 
the same services were now held to be responsible 
for an undeniable increase. The science of the matter 
was but imperfectly understood. Mrs. Darby, in- '^ 
fluenced by the fashionable notions of the period, had 
not allowed her children to be inoculated. They were 
nov/ to pay the penalty of her ill-judgment. 

Little George Darby was the first to be stricken 
with the disease. His mother adored the little fellow, 
and was distracted at the possible consequences of 
her folly. The child was, indeed, dangerously ill, 
and in the confusion brought about by the disaster 
it was thought advisable to postpone Mary's appearance 
on the stage until the darkness of the domestic 
horizon had lifted. All the good in Tom's nature 
was challenged to the surface by the melancholy 
occasion. His heart was touched no less by the 
anxious sorrow of the mother than by the sufferings 



46 PERDITA 

of the child ; and while few people ventured even 
to call and inquire after the patient's progress and 
most of the Darbys' acquaintance avoided the house 
altogether, Tom fearlessly entered upon a thousand 
services, conferring with the doctor, arranging the 
pillows of the patient, visiting the apothecary, consoling 
the mother. Night and day he was in and out of 
the house. His presence animated the drooping spirits 
of the ladies, his advice (and they frequently turned 
for advice to him as the only man besides the doctor 
to whom they could appeal) was always prudent, and 
no amount of running hither and thither could fatigue 
him. 

It was in ministering to the comfort of Mary 
' that he found the greatest difficulty. At the beginning 
of her brother's illness she had been sullen and 
discontented ; her own plans were disturbed ; she 
was unable to realise the mortal nature of the danger 
to which his life was being exposed ; Tom's frequent 
presence irritated her. But as the disease progressed 
to its climax, she forgot her own troubles in those 
of her mother. One child (whom Mary had never 
known) had been killed by smallpox. Was death 
going to claim another member of her family through 
the same disease ? Death. She had read of it, 
written of it, acted it to herself, but never before 
been face to face with the reality as it now threatened 
to present itself. The death of her little brother 
William in Bristol had come and gone so rapidly 
that she had not had time to dwell upon it apart 
from the other calamities in which that period of 
her life was involved. And she was younger then 
and had been kept out of the sick-room. Tom 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 47 

advised a similar course in the present instance, but to 
this she would not consent ; and Mrs. Darby was too 
distracted to insist upon anything. Mary's voluntary 
exposure of herself to the dangers of infection was 
indeed responsible for some of the zeal with which 
Tom cast all regard for his personal safety to the 
winds. In doing so he exhibited a power of self- 
sacrifice worthy of a son in a similar stress of cir- 
cumstance. Had she paused to reflect, in the midst 
of her distress, upon his actions, Mrs. Darby would 
not have shrunk from recognition of the title to be 
called son-in-law which he was winning for himself. 
But Mary's opinion of his zeal, as he well knew, 
must be different. He felt acutely not only humilia- 
tion in the thought that she might regard him as 
officious, but a sympathy as generous as it was 
helpless in the resentment which she might reasonably 
feel at the way in which misfortune had equipped him 
with a weapon for piercing her heart. 

One day when he entered the room unexpectedly, 
he found her in tears. The doctor had spoken 
gravely of her little brother's condition. 

" Oh, what would I not give," cried he, " for the 
power to stop those tears ! " 

She turned from his outstretched hand and fled 
from the room. His air of dejection did not escape 
Mrs. Darby's observation when they met. He had 
brought her an elegantly bound copy of Hervey's 
" Meditations," and, as he handed the book to her, 
expressed the hope that it might help to beguile her 
through some of the weary hours. 

" How untiring is your kindness," she said, as she 
took the volume. " But you expend too much energy 



48 PERDITA 

on our behalf. 'Tis unwise so to tax your strength, 
especially after your recent illness. I fear my girl is 
sometimes ungracious. But believe me her heart is 
good. Of late she has been more petulant than I 
have ever known her. She is young, and unequal 
to the strain of this anxiety. Have you not noted 
how pale she looks these last days ? " 

Tom had noted the circumstance. To note in 
silence every passing mood in the girl when he was 
in her company was his sole recompense for his 
assiduity, but he could gather no hope from her 
attitude towards him. As a rule she was coldly polite, 
and sometimes she made neat speeches of gratitude, 
but the involuntarv recognition for which he sighed 
never betrayed itself in a look or a word. Would 
that stubborn little heart never melt ? When her 
brother was at last pronounced out of danger, he hoped 
that their joint rejoicing might bring him within 
reach of her compassion. But the paleness never left 
her cheeks. Soon she began to complain of pains. 
What both Tom and Mrs. Darby suspected, neither 
dared utter, until the unhappy truth could no longer 
be evaded : Mary was sickening for the smallpox. 

Mrs. Darby was frantic ; she accused herself again 
and again for not insisting on Mary's taking Tom's 
advice and avoiding the sick-room. Now it was too 
late. All the anxiety had to be experienced again, 
and who could foretell the consequences ? Tom's 
composure broke down. At the sight of Mrs. Darby's 
grief he felt the tears rising in his eyes. 

" If 'twas ordained that there should be another 
victim, why could not I have been chosen in her 
place ? " cried the lover. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 49 

" 'Tis a sin to criticise the decrees of Providence," 
Mrs. Darby replied. " And yet 'tis almost more than 
I can bear." 

While they were talking, Mary lay upstairs thinking. 
Of what ? Of her mother's fresh consternation .'' Of 
her lover's despair .'' Of the possibilities of a woful 
disfigurement with which she was menaced ? Of none 
of these things. She was crying at the thought that 
maybe she would never play Cordelia to Mr. Garrick's 
Lear. All the hours spent in perfecting herself in her 
lines were perhaps wasted. Never would she gaze from 
the stage upon that sea of faces rising in gradual 
ascent from the pit. How often had she imagined 
to herself the ecstasies of that evening, the glitter 
of the company, the growing tempest of their applause. 
There was not a father in that audience but she would 
wring his heart ; and she saw herself at the close of 
the performance summoned before the curtain, leaning 
breathless on the arm of Mr. Garrick and bending 
before the storm of public acclamation. And now all 
was to prove an empty dream. She was in bed, in 
the bed of her own house, smitten with a deadly 
disease. Downstairs were her mother and that man. 
Her head began to sing and her temples to throb. 
Suddenly she beats the pillows and borrowing the lines 
from Lear, in the confusion of her brain, cries out : 

A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all ! 

I might have saved her ; now she's gone for ever ! 

The others rush upstairs, alarmed by the sounds 
that have broken upon their ears, and soothe the 
delirious girl with a cordial left by the doctor. 



VI 

Now that Mary was at the mercy of a perilous and 
perhaps fatal malady, her mother began again to reflect 
on the future of her daughter. Little George's 
illness had scared away all thought of anything but 
his sufferings and the longing for his recovery. But 
with Mary's recovery (and she dared not contemplate 
the terrible alternative) the whole advisability of her pur- 
suing: her theatrical ambitions would once more come 
into question. She knew that the girl's purpose was 
as firm as ever ; nothing could shake that. Nothing ? 
Suppose some larger influence, something to change 
the whole tenour of her life, were to supersede this 
infatuation for the stage. It was devoutly to be wished. 
Her health would never bear the strain of so arduous 
a profession. She thought of Tom with compassion. 
Poor Tom ! Was all that devotion to be in vain ? 
Yet she herself had dismissed a lover who longed only 
for the opportunity to prove himself equally deserving. 
Dearly had she paid that independence of spirit in 
obedience to which she had set aside the wishes of 
her parents in the matter of her own marriage. And 
they had been explicit enough in telling their daughter 
what they judged to be for her good. Was it not 
her duty to be equally explicit to Mary ? Hitherto 
she had refrained from all express advocacy of the 
lover's cause. She knew that Mary would urge her 

50 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 51 

youth as an excuse for pushing into the background 
any proposition of matrimony. But the argument 
lost strength in the light of the offers which had already 
been made ; and there had been little of the child, 
artless as her conduct had been, in her manner of 
regarding them. In fact neither in her talents nor in 
her personal appearance was she like other girls of 
her age, and Mrs. Darby was fully aware of the 
dangers as well as of the privileges inherent in the 
distinction. 

Fortunately the smallpox attacked Mary less violently 
than her brother, and many weeks had not passed 
before her mother determined to open the subject 
nearest her heart. By this time she felt the necessity 
for showing the faithful Tom at least some personal 
recognition for his untiring kindness ; every hour 
improved her own impression of his merits. His 
chivalrous manner, the soundness of his taste in 
literature, his acquaintance with the best society 
and his frequently reiterated disapproval of the vices 
which disfigured it, were powerful recommendations. 
Some pity for his orphaned life was mingled with the 
pleasure which she experienced in his company. She 
was sensible that a more brilliant union would better 
have satisfied her husband's vanity, but she felt no 
compunction when she imagined to herself Captain 
Darby's comment on hearing of the marriage : " The 
goddaughter of Chancellor Northington might have 
married a duke." Aye, but the dukes of the day 
did not confine their admiration of female beauty 
to proposals of marriage. Had not the Duke of 
Cumberland, the King's own brother, set a notoriously 
bad example ? 



52 PERDITA 

But while she was satisfied of the wisdom of her 
advice, she prepared herself to encounter many 
difficulties in attempting to make it acceptable to her 
daughter. On several occasions when she had broached 
the topic, Mary had put her off ; now pleading the 
privilege of convalescence to choose its own subjects 
of conversation ; now disarming her mother's intentions 
by a desire to be read to ; and again, expressing the 
hope that if, with God's aid, she recovered, she might 
never be separated from her dear mamma. At last 
Mrs. Darby, seeing that Mary would never voluntarily 
direct her thoughts to the subject, commanded her 
to give it her attention with all the gravity of which 
she was capable. 

" I have something very serious to discuss with you," 
said she one afternoon, as she entered the room and 
took a seat by the bedside. " You are now sufficiently 
recovered to listen to what I say without flutters. 
You must know that Tom's affections are deeply 
engaged. That he has endeared himself to us all by 
his devotion to our interests in this time of trouble, 
I need not tell you. But I can no longer take 
advantage of his goodness unless you will consent 
to look upon his suit with favour." 

" Oh, Madam," cried Mary, " why should you regard 
him as more serious in his profession of passion for 
me than the others ? When he sees the scars upon 
my face left by this illness, will he not take to his 
heels .? " 

*' You wrong him," said Mrs. Darby quickly. " He 
is the kindest, the best of mortals. Your illness has 
but increased his affection for you, nor is there reason 
to suppose," she added weakly, " from the lightness 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY S3 

of the attack that it will leave the disfigurements of 
which you speak. God forbid that my child should 
bear such an affliction ! But what reason have you 
for refusing even to hear his addresses." 

" I do not love him," said Mary simply. 

" You love some other." 

" I have no other ambition at present than to get 
well and obey Mr. Garrick's commands." 

" Ah, Mr. Garrick, Mr. Garrick ! " cried Mrs. Darby 
with an impatient ring in her voice, " your head has 
been turned by Mr. Garrick and his theatre. Perhaps 
some libertine actor has already enslaved your 
affections. I had hoped my love for you would at 
the least have earned your confidence." And she 
began to cry. 

" If I have wronged Tom, it is now you who wrong 
me," Mary answered coldly. "I have not deserved 
your censure." 

But Mrs. Darby went on crying ; it was so hard 
to be a mother ; she feared her child might think 
from what she had said that she wished to be rid 
of her ; how far from the truth would be the cruel 
supposition. But Tom's melancholy face haunted her ; 
she had not encouraged him to hope ; neither had 
she shut the door upon his amiable services. How 
could she ? Was she not alone in the world ? His 
conduct had shown the greatest delicacy. Every day 
disclosed a fresh solicitude for their welfare. '' I know 
not what I should have done without him," said 
Mrs. Darby. 

" And I know not what I should dp with him,' 
says Mary, at which her mother cries again and 
complains of her flippancy. By the end of the con- 



54 PERDITA 

versation one would have thought that Mary was 
the parent and her mother the child ; for Mrs. Darby 
needed soothing, and Mary humoured her by pre- 
tending that she would think over the matter, adding 
a playful warning to her mother to beware lest she 
herself should lose her heart to the melancholy Tom. 

As soon as she was delivered of Mrs. Darby's 
presence Mary caused her box of manuscripts to be 
brought to her, and hunted out a poem in which she 
had ventured on the description of an ideal husband 
imagined in moments of solitary inspiration. As she 
read the lines she smiled at the correctness and the 
nicety of the youth depicted. Her mother would 
have every reason to be satisfied if she could only 
guess the contents of this poem. Would Tom cor- 
respond to the description ^ Was he " firm in 
friendship, fond in love, free from flattery, pride, and 
folly " ^ She enjoyed the novelty of thinking of the 
shadowy poem and the substantial man together ; the 
process, by lending reality to her conception of herself 
as a creature of high literary gifts, flattered her vanity, 
and the edge of her ridicule for Tom was turned 
aside by the subtle influence shed upon the mere man 
from her own poetic effusion. Yet she was far from 
anything like acquiescence in her mother's wishes. 
Only she toyed with, the notion as she might have 
done with some new-fangled ribbon from the milliner's, 
holding it up this way and that in the light to see 
a variety of colour eff^ects. 

Mrs. Darby soon realised that her advice alone did 
little to advance Tom's chances, and Mary was glad 
enough to consent to receive the lover, provided it 
was intimated to him that the permission was granted 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 55 

out of sisterly gratitude for brotherly services. Any- 
thing was better than these sermons of her mother's. 
The tedium of lying on a couch would be agreeably 
relieved by a lover's rhapsodies, and when they in 
their turn became wearisome she could always arrest 
them by reminding him of the terms on which he 
had been admitted to her presence. Tom's face beamed 
when the good news was conveyed to him. Mrs. 
Darby begged that he would control his emotions. 
Another week would complete her daughter's recovery ; 
too much excitement might retard it ; she could trust 
him to observe the utmost circumspection. 

Mary never forgot Tom's entrance. She had been 
reading and had put the book, down to ponder a line, 
when he appeared in the frame of the doorway. The 
neatness of his costume struck her no less than its 
splendour. He stood on tiptoe as if fearful to steal 
unawares upon her slumbers. For a moment she 
played with her impression of him before dismissing 
it by an invitation to enter. His manner was gentle, 
almost paternally tender. He could hardly express 
the satisfaction which he felt on being privileged to 
see her in so advanced a state of recovery. Advancing 
towards the window, he offered to adjust the blind 
so as to preclude the admission of an intemperate light. 

" You are afraid to look upon my face for fear of 
seeing the scars there," she said. 

He made no reply, and stood gazing upon the road 
below with the cord in his hand. Nearly a minute 
passed in silence. Then he drew the cord with quiet 
deliberation as tight as it would go, admitting to the 
full the cold brilliance of a noonday sun in mid-winter. 
Mary started, and he turned. 



S6 PERDITA 

'* Ten thousand scars could not rob that face of 
its beauty," he said in a whisper, as if talking to 
himself. 

Who had broken the compact at the start ? 
What lover would have been slow to take advantage 
of her impulsive coquetry ? Tom's interview lifted 
him to heights of aspiration and plunged him into 
valleys of humiliation. She let him talk as he 
pleased, frequently gave him her hand to kiss and 
called for her maid in the same moment. Her vivacity 
grew with his discomfiture. Only one thing she 
refused to discuss, and that was her marriage. Tom 
followed panting in the wake of her assiduous levity. 
His presence seemed to feed her theatrical passion. 
By her conduct she landed him in artificial situations 
from which he had not the art to extricate himself. 
So long as her address as an actress could force upon 
him an actor's powers of dissimulation in their relations 
to each other, she was content ; but whenever the 
mere man, with his inevitable cry for capitulation on 
an express date, dared to force himself upon her notice, 
she was off. She did not use her age as an argument 
against marriage when she talked with Tom. To do 
so would have been to deprive herself of the dignity 
which an assumption of equality with him in this 
respect conferred upon her. She intrenched her- 
self behind more specious arguments, such as that 
domestic happiness could not exist where there was 
not a warm and powerful union of soul in the persons ; 
and the admitted fact that she liked Tom was in itself 
an indication that she could never love him. " 'Tis 
the pinnacle of unwisdom," sighed Tom. " What has 
love to do with reason ? " laughed Mary. But when- 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 57 

ever Tom left her, the idea of becoming his wife 
gained ground on her. In his presence she felt secure 
enough ; out of it she experienced a sense of isolation. 
Mrs. Darby said no more, but something in her very 
silence seemed to warn her that her mother would 
resign herself to the separation which her daughter's 
marriage would involve. The thought stirred Mary's 
affection for her mother to its depths. 

" What have I done that you should want me to 
go from you ? " she exclaimed. 

Mrs. Darby took refuge at once in tears. *' My 
child, my child," said she, " I do not wish it. But 
Tom has begged me to sacrifice my independence by 
living with you when you are married. I cannot say 
how deeply grateful I feel for this new evidence of 
his affection. But it is for you to decide." 

" Can this be possible ? " cried Mary in a voice of 
mingled astonishment and delight. " Can Tom be 
generous enough to let us live on together as of old .'' " 

Mrs. Darby checked her. 

" Not as of old," she said. " There will come 
changes enough." 

" But our love for each other cannot change ! " 

" God grant it," said Mrs. Darby solemnly. 

Tom smiled when he left the house that evening. 
Mary's consent had been given : not without con- 
ditions, but one of these had been of his own sug- 
gestion. Mrs. Darby was to continue to form part 
of the household. The other puzzled him. " She 
must have been filling her head with some romantic 
nonsense from the poets," he reflected, "and 'tis true 
she is but a child." They were to Hve as brother 
and sister after the marriage ; until when, she would 



58 PERDITA 

not say : as a brother he had come into the house 
of sickness, as a son he had shown himself to her 
mother. So the peaceful life was to continue. It 
was a picture of artificial ideals entirely after her heart. 
The idea of impersonating a wife, so far from frighten- 
ing her, beguiled her fancy ; and in this way she was 
not obliged to relinquish the terms on which she had 
consented to receive his addresses. A few months 
only had passed since her fifteenth birthday. Except 
for her precocious interest in literature and the stage, 
she was a child indeed in her occupations. Tom had 
laughed when he had found her one day dressing a 
doll to help while away the hours of convalescence. 
He himself looked but a few years older than she was. 
And he was impatient to push forward the ceremony. 

The banns were published on three successive 
Sundays at St. Martin's Church. At each reading 
Mary felt a flutter of excitement as the parson paused 
to give any objector time to make himself heard. 
But no voice was raised, and her readiness to figure 
in a dramatic episode subsided. After much discussion 
the date of the marriage was fixed for the twelfth or 
April, and on the morning after all the preliminaries 
had been duly arranged Tom paid the Darbys an early 
visit. He had several matters of importance to com- 
municate to them. 



VII 

His greeting to the ladies betrayed agitation. " I have 
a request to prefer which may appear singular," he 
said. They bade him be seated, but as if he had not 
heard the invitation he paced up and down the room. 
Mary noted that his dress was somewhat disordered. 

" You must know," he continued, " that until I come 
of age I am subject to the control of my uncle. His 
generosity makes me reluctant to speak harshly of 
him, but he is of the choleric temperament, and un- 
fortunately he has already formed plans for my marriage. 
Hitherto 1 have refrained from openly disapproving 
these plans. To do so now would be to court his 
displeasure with all the consequences. 'Tis for this 
reason that I am driven to request that for a time at 
least our union should be kept secret." 

Mrs. Darby at once suggested that she should visit 
Mr. Harris (for this was the name of Tom's uncle) 
and attempt to soothe the irritation which he might 
naturally be expected to feel on such an occasion. 

" I myself have thought of this," answered Tom. 
" Indeed it is but one of the many courses I have 
turned over in my mind since leaving you last night. 
But my uncle lives in Wales, and the prospect of 
several days' journey, with little promise of a satisfactory 
interview at the end of it, will not allow me to entertain 
the idea. No, his heart is set on my union with 

59 



6o PERDITA 

Julia, and he waits but the expiration • of my articles 
with Messrs. Vernon and Elderton to celebrate our 
marriage." 

" And Julia ? " said Mary quietly. 
" Has fortune, but no favour," said Tom, casting 
a rapid glance at the girl. '* Oh, why had I not the 
courage to declare that I could never enter into this 
union ? But my uncle, who has always lived and 
prospered in the narrow pursuits of trade, lacks (how 
I grieve to say it !) the finer sensibilities of nature. 
With him it is the purse, not the heart, which 
should decide the most solemn issue in a man's 
life." 

*' And the lady — this Julia," cried Mary impatiently, 
" is she to be left out of these considerations ? Is 
your love for me but a transferred affection ? Were 
you satisfied with the fortune until the face presented 
itself.^ Perhaps when the parson has joined us you 
will begin to regret the step you have taken. No, 
no, 'tis idle to argue with me," she continued with 
rising indignation. "Let this marriage wait until 
you are the arbiter of your own destiny. What need 
for this feverish hurry ? " 

" But the banns, the banns, child ! " interposed Mrs. 
Darby. 

" The banns do not marry us, Madam," said Mary, 
and flung from the room. 

The next few days were all confusion. Mrs. Darby 
could do nothing with her daughter, Tom was 
refused admittance to her presence. Mr. Wayman, 
who had been informed of the engagement, was now 
made acquainted with the necessity for keeping it 
a secret. He expressed his regret at the circumstances, 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 6i 

and his confidence that when once Mary was Tom's 
bride she would melt the uncle's heart. " I do not 
know Mr. Harris," said he, " but sterner hearts than 
his have yielded to less bright influence than shines 
out of your daughter's eyes." 

In the meanwhile Mary remained obdurate, nursing 
her resentment in the privacy of her room. Why 
had not this Julia risen in church when the banns were 
read ? She pictured the whole scene : the startled 
look in the parson's eye ; Julia's pale face and tragic 
mien ; the stretched necks of the congregation and 
Tom blushing scarlet. It seemed to her that wher- 
ever Julia might be, it was but right she should be 
acquainted with her lover's perfidy. For had he not 
consented to appear to her in the light of a lover ^ 
In pursuit of this idea she began thinking of how to 
frame a letter to Julia, and to her mother's dismay 
the pen was in her hand and the opening sentence had 
been written when Mrs. Darby once more sought to 
bring her daughter to reason. Mary sullenly 
allowed her mother to peer over her shoulder, and 
the disconsolate lady read the words : " Madam, cir- 
cumstances have arisen which make it highly expedient 
that I should acquaint you " 

" StiU brooding over Tom's folly," she said gently. 

'* I cannot marry him." 

'' Child, child, you will not disgrace us ! You cannot 
do it ; your honour is pledged." 

" How now ? My honour ! Is he ashamed to 
marry me } And if not ashamed, why does he ask 
for secrecy ? I can spare him his shame. I do not 
love him." 

*' Undutiful girl. How often must I remind you 



62 PERDITA 

of your father's warning. Will you never learn to 
put a curb on your caprices ? Would to Heaven the 
libertine captain had never come in your way. For 
I see that he still occupies your mind, and you grasp 
at every chance to postpone a marriage which all are 
agreed is for your welfare. As for this girl who has 
with so little propriety allowed her name to be associated 
with Tom's on so slender an excuse, she will soon 
dispose of her wealth and her affections elsewhere. 
Come, let me go down to Tom and tell him all 
is adjusted. . . . What ? Still unforgiving ? Take care, 
Miss Darby, your husband never has reason to blame 
a graver offence in the wife than she is asked to over- 
look in the lover. But I have done. 'Tis not for the 
parent to beg the child." 

Mrs. Darby swept past her daughter and disappeared 
down the stairs, once more to tell Tom that her 
mission had failed. 

" Indeed my daughter has good cause to be dis- 
affected," she said, and she was almost as vehement 
in her condemnation of Tom's conduct as she had 
been a minute ago of her daughter's obstinacy. The 
whole affair was most provoking. A wedding was 
not a thing that could be fixed or unfixed at every 
f turn of the wind like a weathercock. Many prepara- 
tions had to be made even for the quietest ceremony 
imaginable. Mary would have to change her habit 
from that of the child to that of the woman. It was 
imperative to see a milliner without delay ; yet she 
was loth to summon a woman so long as her girl 
remained in this tiresome frame of mind. She gave 
no serious consideration to Mary's suggestion that 
the wedding should be postponed. Such a course 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 63 

seemed to the superstitious woman full of forebodings, 
and the thought of losing Tom altogether stirred into 
fresh activity all her old misgivings as to what might 
become of her daughter. There was no denying that 
she was giddy, and could a mother hope to find another 
son-in-law as accommodating as Tom ? 

To add further confusion to the situation Mr. 
Garrick now wrote to obtain allowance to fix the 
night of Mary's appearance at Drury Lane Theatre. 
His letter expressed some impatience at the delays to 
which he had been subjected ; the dramatic career 
must not be regarded in the light of a recreation ; 
it was a serious profession requiring the exercise of 
as much self-denial as the profession of Mr. Cox 
himself, if success was to be obtained. Mrs. Darby 
showed the letter to Tom. " The stage will be her 
ruin," said he. *' But what are we to do ? " cried 
Mrs. Darby. Tom would have liked to withhold 
the letter from Mary altogether, but dared not suggest 
a course that might appear treacherous ; and Mrs. 
Darby, who could not be stern for long without 
wishing again to be gentle to her daughter, carried the 
letter upstairs to Mary. 

She paused opposite the door. The sound of 
Mary's voice reached her in a low wail where she 
stood. Was the girl ill ? Why did she moan thus ? 
In a moment Mrs. Darby had flung the door wide open 
upon a scene of strange disorder. Scarcely one piece 
of furniture was in its accustomed place. In an empty 
space opposite a row of empty chairs, behind which a 
large mirror had been dragged into position, Mary was 
kneehng, her loosened hair flowing over her shoulders. 
With outstretched hand she was beseeching some 



64 PERDITA 

imaginary figure on the mimic stage, and her eyes 
were fixed upon her own reflection in the looking- 
glass. The accidental discovery of her daughter's 
unconcerned enjoyment of theatricals at a time when 
she might have been expected to dwell upon the 
solemnity of her approaching marriage disconcerted 
Mrs. Darby even more than the steadiness of Mary's 
/ refusal to see Tom. As for the latter, the mother 
was not guilty of a desire to please at the expense of 
accuracy when she told Tom that the longer he was 
kept out, the more complete would be the reconciliation 
when at last he should be admitted. But in the 
presence of Mary's guileless adherence to the cherished 
ambition of appearing as Cordelia, with the ill-timed 
letter of Mr. Garrick in her hand Mrs. Darby was 
entirely at a loss how to proceed. 

She was about to withdraw with the contents of the 
letter uncommunicated, but Mary had seen her and 
in a moment was by her side. Putting her arm in 
her mother's she led her to a chair. Mrs. Darby 
still held the letter in her hand, grasping it with a 
determination all the greater for the indecision of 
purpose with which she was beset. 

" You have something to tell me," said Mary, 
casting a rapid glance of curiosity at the letter, and 
then : " Your hand trembles, mamma. What has 
happened .'' " 

" Shall I speak to you, undutiful child ? How long 
will you torture me with your whims ? I have a 
mind to answer this letter without consulting you, 
for you do not deserve my confidence. To be 
actingithus within a few weeks of your marriage- " 

" Oh this marriage ! " Mary interrupted impatiently. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 6^ 

" Will not one time do as well as another ? You 
cannot wish it yourself. Tom has bewitched you with 
his fine manners." 

" Listen to me," said Mrs. Darby, and the unfamiliar 
note of passion in her voice commanded her daughter's 
silence. " This letter is from Mr. Garrick." Mary's 
face brightened. " To w^," continued Mrs. Darby, 
with dramatic emphasis on the pronoun. " He asks 
my permission to fix a date for your appearance. That 
permission he will never have — never, never ! It you 
disobey my wishes, you leave the house never to 
return. I will not be the tool of your disobedience. 
Neither will I thwart you in your purpose. If you 
care not for the honour of your family, look to your 
own. Go and seek from Mrs. Garrick the protection 
as a mother which I can no longer give you. But take 
care — take care what you do ! " 

Before Mary could recover from her surprise at so 
unwonted an ebullition of temper, Mrs. Darby was gone 
from the room. The girl began to hum the catch 
from a popular ballad as she walked deliberately about 
the room. Her mother's fiery speech had inspired 
her with those very thoughts of complete rebellion 
which it had been designed to stifle. Why should she 
not indeed escape from all these complications to the 
protection of the Garricks } She imagined herself 
stealing out towards dusk, hailing a hackney coach, 
and driving to Adelphi Terrace ; and she imagined 
Tom's consternation at the discovery the next morning 
when they came to wake her and found the empty 
bed. But when she tried to picture to herself Mr. 
Garrick's reception of her, the pinions of her fancy 
drooped and she fell again to earth from the con- 

5 



66 PERDITA 

templated heaven of that escapade. Had she not 
heard the actor condemn just such a flight in another 
young lady, and condemn it too with no reserve of 
sympathy, as unmannerly and tending to degrade the 
theatrical profession ? Something warned Mary that 
she could expect no favour from Mrs. Garrick unless 
it were shared by her husband. She began to cry with 
vexation at the cruelty of her fate. 

"Why do you persecute me thus.? " cried the un- 
happy girl, as at the sound of footsteps she turned to 
see Tom in the doorway. 

** To save you from yourself," replied Tom without 
advancing a step. Mary laughed. 

" A pretty service ! But what you call the perilous 
glare of the stage frightens me less than the dark 
secrecy of a clandestine union. What right have you 
to impose this condition ? " 

" Have you made no conditions .? " 

Mary stamped her foot with rage at her inability 
to make any satisfactory answer to his question. 
The anger in her eyes was a banquet for his to feast 
upon. 

" Mary, you will not persist in ridiculing the custom 
of the Church, the prayers of your mother ? " 

" And yours ? " was her mischievous answer. 

He kneeled at her feet, imploring her to put an 
end to his distress. If she would not consider the 
consequences to herself, would she not reflect for a 
moment on the consequence to him of her unreason, 
if it were persisted in ? She had the curiosity rather 
than the grace to bid him dwell more particularly on 
the supposed consequence. 

*' You will kill in me all belief in the good and 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 67 

the pure. Vice will beckon me with crooked finger. 
My heart, my conscience, will be cold as a stone. All 
the pleasures of the moment will be like beacons to 
light me along the paths of darkness. See, Mary, you 
hold the lite of a man in your power. 'Tis yours to 
ruin or to make beautiful. You have pledged your 
word. Can you hesitate ? " 

The force of his eloquent pleading struck home. 
She herself did not understand wherein lay the strength 
of his appeal. Hitherto he had been the patient lover, 
wearying her by his indefatigable activity on behalf 
of her mother no less than of herself. Now passion 
was investing him with more heroic proportions, com- 
pelling from him the utterance of words which would 
have sounded well enough in some fervid drama of 
which she was fitted by nature (or at least she thought 
so) to be the heroine. She had thought of romance as 
an enchanted garden veiled except at intervals from the 
vision of all men and women except actors and actresses. 
Each night the curtain lifted upon some wondrous 
corner in that garden for the delight of the spectators 
in the theatre, but each night at the close of the 
performance the same curtain fell, shutting out the 
glamour from all but those on the stage. Now as 
she stood facing her lover, with the disorder of the 
mimic stage which she had improvised all about her, 
it was as if the large air of Drury Lane stage had 
escaped into her own little chamber. The mysterious 
barrier between public ambition and private life had 
disappeared. It was with the sense of this novel dis- 
covery full upon her, the dark inkling that she was 
acting an absorbing part in the drama of her own 
life, that she now spoke. 



68 PERDITA 

" When the twelfth of April is once passed, and 
you still unwedded, you will go back to Julia." 

" Never ! " cried Tom, starting to his feet. *' I 
would sooner forego all claim to my uncle's fortune." 

'* When he hears of our marriage Mr. Harris will 
in any case disinherit you." 

" And that thought deters you ? " 

" Ungenerous ! " cried Mary, striving to keep the 
tears out of her voice, 

" Ah, let him disinherit me of his money," said 
Tom bitterly. " He cannot disinherit me of your 
goodness and your beauty. I ask no fairer portion 
in life than to work for you. I can think of no crueller 
fate than to live without you in idleness. Prudence 
and love make an ill match. Let us cast prudence 
to the winds and tell my uncle of our engagement." 

With the air of a sovereign offering pardon to a 
prisoner she extended her hand, withdrawing it as 
swiftly as he would permit from a grasp that bespoke 
the conqueror rather than the captive. Then she 
followed him slowly down the stairs to where Mrs. 
Darby sat anxiously awaiting the issue of their colloquy. 
The sound of Mary's footsteps would have been enough 
without Tom's beaming countenance to reassure her. 
To her surprise her daughter was not in the least 
agitated ; indeed she spoke as calmly now of the 
arrangements to be made, as she had but a little 
while before of her resolution not to marry Tom until 
he was of age. 

There were now only a few weeks before the cere- 
mony, and the milliner paid daily her visit to the 
ladies in York Buildings. The woman smiled at the 
capricious love of simplicity in the young lady's taste, 



if^if '"^ 




m. 



From an engraving by J. Cond^, after a miniature 
by R. Cosway. 

MARY ROBINSON. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 69 

but Mrs. Darby insisted on her carrying out Mary's 
instructions with the minutest exactitude. Her marriage 
dress was designed to reproduce the habit of a Quaker, 
partly because the girl preserved a romantic impression 
of the Quaker ladies whom she had seen in Bristol, 
chiefly because the grown-up habit of the Quaker 
formed a less violent change from the girlish habit 
which she had worn until now, than the modish 
costumes of the day preferred by the milliner ; and 
its flowing simplicity flattered the beauty of a face 
that would have reflected ridicule on anything like 
elaborate embellishment. Tom's attire on his marriage 
day was a perfect mixture of sobriety and magnificence. 
He chose a maroon coat of rich quality and sombre 
hue. Everything in his costume pointed the nicety 
of his taste and the characteristic neatness of his person, 
from the buckles on his shoes to the powder on his 
head. 

When she entered St. Martin's Church the dimness 
of the interior and the hollow resonance of her foot- 
steps on the flags took Mary's thoughts back to the 
Minster at Bristol and the brass eagle under which 
she loved to sit as a little child. The emptiness of 
the church (for with the removal of secrecy as a con- 
dition Mary had no longer protested against it) added 
the solemnity of unbroken silence to the intervals be- 
tween the proceedings. Dr. Saunders, the venerable 
vicar of the church, performed the ceremony ; the 
clerk officiated as father, and Mrs. Darby and the 
woman who opened the pews were the only witnesses 
to the union. A frigid composure distinguished every 
look, every act of Mary on this occasion. Mrs. 
Darby's tears fell silently and continuously. As Mary 



70 PERDITA 

knelt at the altar she experienced no emotions of hope, 
or sorrow, or fear. She was sensible of the cold in 
her knees, and that was all. As she spoke the 
marriage vow her fancy wandered involuntarily to Mr. 
Garrick and that glorious entry upon the stage which 
she had consented to forego. At the conclusion of 
the ceremony the vicar looked tenderly at Mary and 
declared that he had never before performed the office 
for so young a bride. From the church Mrs. Darby, 
with her son-in-law and her married daughter, pro- 
ceeded to the house of a friend where an elaborate 
breakfast had been prepared for them. Thence they 
set out for the inn at Maidenhead Bridge, being joined 
at the moment of departure by an intimate school- 
friend of Tom's, who had not been informed of the 
marriage, but regarded Tom in the light of a favoured 
suitor. 

*' Miss Darby is dressed like a bride," observed this 
facetious young man as he helped Mrs. Darby to 
mount the postchaise and took his seat beside her. 
Tom and Mary travelled in a phaeton. After the 
breakfast she had changed her Quaker's habit for a 
dress of white muslin, over which she wore a white 
sarsnet scarf-cloak. On her head was a chip hat 
adorned with a profusion of white ribbons, and as 
she sprang lightly into her high seat Tom's friend 
glanced mischievously at the girl's dainty foot clad in 
a white satin slipper in which the glint of silver em- 
broidery shone as it was touched by the rays of the April 
sun. Mary overheard the remark of her husband's 
friend, and blushed. She looked quite as pretty as 
Mr. Cosway's miniature painting of her which you 
may still see hanging on a screen in the Garrick Club. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 71 

During the whole of that day she was wrapped in 
impenetrable melancholy and scarce heeded the jocund 
speeches of the young husband, so splendid in his 
maroon coat and silver buttons, at her side. In the 
evening, as she strolled with her mother in the garden 
opposite the inn, she burst into tears and declared 
herself the unhappiest of mortals, and Mrs. Darby 
had much ado to soothe her into a more tranquil 
state of mind. She had renounced the stage as a 
career and acted herself into a loveless marriage. Such ^ 
is the true version of the way in which Mary Darby 
became Mrs. Robinson on the twelfth of April seven- n 
teen hundred and seventy-four. 



VIII 

Mr. Harris was close upon seventy when Tom 
married. His brother Howell Harris, the principal 
founder of Welsh Calvinistic Methodism, the friend 
of Whitefield and the zealous Selina Countess of 
Huntingdon, had died only a year before. Ten years 
earlier another brother had died after a career as 
singular as it was distinguished. Originally a working 
blacksmith he had made his way to London, became 
an authoritative writer on scientific subjects, and besides 
winning the post of Assay Master at the Mint, had 
composed an essay on Money and Coins which remains 
to this day a valuable contribution to the literature of 
an obscure subject. Thomas, of whom Mary's husband 
always spoke as uncle, was the eldest of the three 
brothers. He had turned his activities into the tortuous 
channels of commerce, and, having amassed a consider- 
able fortune, was now playing the squire at Tregunter, 
his newly acquired estate in the county of Breconshire. 
Tregunter was handsomely situated at a few miles' 
distance from Trevecca, where the Countess of 
Huntingdon with the aid of the late Howell had 
established her training college for ministers either of 
the Church of England or of any other Protestant 
denomination. 

While the " business " member of the family care- 
fully avoided taking any share in the obloquy 

72 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 73 

with which his brother had been loaded in his life- 
time, he had no objection to sunning himself in the 
light reflected from the halo of the " martyr " now 
that he was dead. Not that Mr. Harris ever thought 
of turning Methodist ; and when Trevecca was opened 
in 1768 his position as Sheriff of Breconshire had not 
increased his sympathy in his wild brother's mission. 
But now all this was past history. Brickbats were no 
longer flying at the reformer's head, and it was easy to 
be tolerant. He had always known how to reconcile 
his principles with his interests, and there were some 
who still remembered the story of how Tom Harris 
had laid the foundation of that fortune which he now 
loved to display wherever it could serve to gild the 
edges of a rough nature and an illiberal education. 

In his youth he had been apprenticed in London to 
his uncle, who was a master tailor. Perceiving the 
advantages to be gained from an acquaintance with a 
party of well-to-do drunkards who were engaged in 
window-smashing in the neighbourhood in which he 
lived, young Tom Harris (now succeeded to the busi- 
ness) boldly joined the audacious crew and helped them 
to demolish his own windows. " I know the master 
of this house," said he, while the spirits of the party 
were at their highest — " a jolly fellow who keeps 
an excellent bottle of wine in his cellar. Let us 
compel him to produce it." The invitation was 
responded to with alacrity. Harris produced the 
wine, bidding the company start drinking while he 
used all his eloquence to persuade the owner to 
join the carousal. When he had allowed time 
enough to elapse for the merry gentlemen to realise 
that he had not boasted idly of the merits of the wine, 



74 PERDITA 

he reappeared, and amid general laughter disclosed 
himself as the host. The joke was admirably suited to 
the company, and the guests were well pleased, after so 
diverting an entertainment, to order their suits from 
Mr. Harris. He had learnt his trade well ; his coats 
were well cut and well sewn. Soon he acquired a 
reputation as a fashionable tailor, and to keep himself 
on the crest of the wave he paid frequent visits to 
Paris to perfect himself in the mysteries of dandyism. 
The bold ruse by which he had ingratiated himself 
with a party of influential drunkards led to his ob- 
taining contracts for supplying the Army with clothes. 
He was as proud of his cunning as he was careful 
never to mention this conspicuous instance of its 
exercise. 

But he was known in London and, in spite of his 
undeniable success, suspected in Wales. As justice 
of the peace he fined the rustics whenever he heard 
them swear, but in the retirement of his family circle 
he could scarcely make an observation without the 
accompaniment of an oath. It was pretty widely 
known that the terms "nephew" and "niece" applied 
to young Mr. Robinson and his sister, who resided with 
Mr. Harris, were titles of courtesy. Spiteful people 
whispered that their mother had once been Mr. 
Harris's laundry woman ; and the theory was plausible 
enough, to judge from the clumsy stature and the snub 
nose (to say nothing of the ruddy complexion) of Tom 
Robinson's sister, a sour young lady who had joined 
the Huntingdonian sect and spent much time at 
Trevecca. Betsy Robinson disliked her brother for 
the superior airs which he gave himself, and she was 
heartily glad when he went to London to be articled to 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 75 

Messrs. Vernon and Elderton. She disliked Julia also, 
the young lady Mr, Harris intended Tom should 
marry. It was one of the few points on which she and 
her brother were agreed. But she disapproved Tom's 
cowardice in allowing their father to assume his con- 
sent to the match. A few months would now bring 
matters to a head, for Tom was near the end of his 
articles. What would happen ? Mr. Harris had a 
violent temper. Tom, while he had resided under his 
roof, had been frequently the cause of scenes that had 
set the whole household trembling. He was lazy, 
arrogant, critical of his father's manners. Mrs. Molly, 
the governess of the domestic department on the estate, 
who dined at the table with Mr. Harris, did not help 
to soften the father's irritation in the presence of his 
son. Every one in the household felt relieved by 
Tom's absence in London, and his occasional visits to 
Wales in vacation were borne with all the more forti- 
tude for the certainty of their short duration. When 
Tom had written to declare his intention of spending 
his summer holiday near London, no one felt sorry; 
but when at the beginning of August Mr. Harris had 
received another letter announcing his son's speedy 
arrival on a matter of importance, Miss Betsy scented 
danger, Mrs. Molly looked crosser than ever, and 
" the Squire " made them both as uncomfortable as 
he could by hinting at mischief for which he would 
know how to take vengeance on the young scoundrel. 
The topic of conversation shifted from the particulars 
of the family mansion now in course of construction to 
the vexed question of what Tom had been doing and 
what would be the upshot of the disclosures he had to 
make. 



76 PERDITA 

Tom and the Darbys returned to London ten days 
after the marriage. Tom continued to live at the 
house of his lawyers in Southampton Buildings. Mrs. 
Darby and Mary were installed in a large house in 
Great Queen Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, built on a 
site adjoining that on which now stands the Freemason's 
Tavern. They had hired it from Mrs. Worlidge, a 
friend of Mrs. Darby's and the third wife of the late 
artist, who had had almost as many children as he had 
painted pictures ; at least, such was the witticism of the 
friends who helped him to eat, drink, and swear away 
his life. Inigo Jones had designed that house, and 
Kneller and Reynolds had lived in it before Worlidge. 
Their pictures still hung on its walls, and the beauty 
no less than the luxury of their new surroundings 
delighted the mother and her young married daughter. 
Yet as the weeks went by and Tom still evaded the 
publication of his marriage, Mrs. Darby's suspicions 
began to be aroused. This was a strange young 
husband who could bear to live with such composure 
away from his bride. Nor was she contented with Tom's 
explanation that it was Mary's own wish. One day 
when she had left her daughter at a friend's house, she 
walked in obedience to a sudden impulse to Tom's 
chambers. She thought she had noted a change in the 
way in which Mary spoke of Tom. Her mind was 
made up. Concealment was no longer necessary, no 
longer desirable. Her daughter's reputation was at 
stake. Tom must inform his uncle at once. 

*' Unless you are guilty of some gross deception," 
said she, " you can have no reason for maintaining 
the secrecy. If you are acting in obedience to the 
wishes of some other woman -" 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 77 

Tom stopped her. His obvious confusion on her 
sudden appearance had added strength to her fears and 
fire to her words. Perceiving himself to be in a 
situation in which the truth was at last the best excuse 
to be found for his conduct, Tom confessed that Mr. 
Harris was — not his uncle, but (he grieved to say it) 
his father. At the same time he contrived to awaken * 
a certain pity in his hearer for the victim of circum- 
stances which could not fail to humiliate one compelled 
in so rude a manner to reveal them. But Mrs. Darby 
was none the less relentless in her insistence on the mar- 
riage being publicly recognised and Mr. Harris being 
informed of it. If Mr. Wayman were right in his 
anticipation of Mary's influence over the irascible old 
gentleman, all might yet be well. Reluctantly she 
consented to permit Tom the choice of his own time 
and opportunity for disclosing the secret of his parentage 
to his wife, and it was arranged that Mrs. Darby would 
accompany the young people as far as Bristol, and that 
thence they should set out for Wales without any loss 
of time. 

On their arrival in Bristol, Tom, foreseeing an 
advantage to be gained by preparing Mr. Harris for 
the news, left Mary and her mother to pay visits to 
their friends and enjoy the solace of renewing old 
associations. He himself set out for Tregunter. His 
heart sank at the prospect of this interview ; but it 
was no longer to be avoided. 

As he rode towards midnight through the thick 
wood surrounding the estate, his thoughts were indeed 
as black as the shadows from the trees in his path. 
The moon was high, and the mountains, appearing at 
intervals to the solitary traveller as he came on a 



78 PERDITA 

clearing, awakened no sense either of homeliness or 
grandeur in him. He was deeply in debt, and his father 
knew it. How would Mr. Harris take the news of his 
marriage ^ He imagined a stormy scene of mutual 
recriminations, and then saw himself in the road, an 
outcast without promise of support. When he reached 
the cottage in which the family were lodged during the 
building of the mansion, all was silent — ^all dark, but 
for the light burning in the parlour on the ground 
floor. Tom dismounted and pulled timorously at the 
bell. The door opened, and he was confronted with 
his father. 

"A fine time to arrive in the country, " said the 
justice of the peace, motioning Tom to the stable door 
where he could dispose of his horse. '' These are 
your London hours, I suppose." 

Tom said nothing, but when he had lodged the 
horse he entered the cottage and followed his father 
into the parlour. He half expected to see Mrs. 
Molly there scowling at him in her unfriendly fashion, 
but he was relieved to find that the others had all 
retired. 

" Well, " said Mr. Harris, " what now ? " 

Hungry, thirsty, weary with the fatigue of his long 
journey, Tom sank into a chair. 

" Had we not better postpone our conversation till 
the morning ? '' he said. 

Mr. Harris was at once indignant : did Tom think 
he had waited up for the pleasure of once more looking 
on his foppish countenance? What he had to tell 
could as well be said now as at another time. 

" Well then, sir," said Tom desperately, " I cannot 
marry Miss Julia, for I love another." 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 79 

" Love, love, love ! " retorted Mr. Harris with a 
coarse attempt at ridiculing Tom's mincing speech. 
"Is that all you have travelled to tell me ? A man 
cannot live on love. Have you thought of that .'' " 

Tom was silent, and Mr. Harris ran a finger slowly 
along the gold edge of his scarlet waistcoat, as if he 
were cautiously feeling the stitches. 

" I hope the object of your choice is not too young," 
he said more affably, *' for a young wife cannot mend 
a man's fortune." 

" She is nearly seventeen," said Tom uneasily. 

Mr. Harris grunted. 

" I hope she is not handsome," he continued. 
" Rich she cannot be, for you could not fall in love " 
(and again the note of ridicule resounded in the sub- 
stantive) " with a rich girl. But beauty without 
money is a dangerous sort of portion. Julia could 
have set you on your legs, and she is a sensible woman, 
whereas this girl, I will wager, has the head of a 
butterfly. A pox on the women ! " 

Tom leaped from his chair. 

" You shall not abuse her," cried he, with clenched 
fist and the anger darting from his eyes. Mr. Harris 
laughed. 

" Gently, gently, young man, 'tis too early to take 
umbrage. When you are married it will be time for 
your hand to fly to your sword." 

Tom's arm dropped to his side. 

" She is my wife," he said, trembling with suppressed 
fury. 

Mr. Harris looked up from where he sat and cast 
a peculiarly keen glance at his son from under his 
bushy eyebrows. 



8o PERDITA 

" Ho, ho," he whispered softly to himself, and then 
began to hum an air from the " Beggar's Opera." He 
rose and walked about the parlour, while Tom stood 
with his arms folded, waiting for the expected out- 
burst. Suddenly his father wheeled round and faced 
his son at a few paces distant. 

" Where is she ? " cried he in a voice of thunder. 
" In Bristol with her mother," said Tom meekly. 
" I wanted to bring her — here." 

" Well," said his father, assuming his most judicial 
manner, " what is done cannot be undone. If she is 
a gentlewoman, I will not refuse to see her. You 
may fetch her when you please." Then, without 
appearing to have noticed Tom's thanks, and with 
his eyes staring in front of him as if at some object 
in his own past which had risen unbidden to his 
memory, he walked heavily from the parlour. Tom 
heard his footsteps overhead and waited until all was 
still before he went up to bed, still hungry, but 
relieved that the dreaded strain of the interview was 
over. 

The next morning he wrote to Mary requesting 
her to prepare for the journey to Tregunter, and 
announcing his intention of returning to fetch her 
within a few days. He also bade her write to Mr. 
King, the money broker in Goodman's Fields, who 
would forward her a sum to cover the expense of 
all necessary purchases ; his uncle, he said, seemed 
disposed to act handsomely. Mrs. Darby rejoiced at 
the news conveyed in her daughter's letter. She had 
every hope that the natural relation in which her 
son-in-law stood to Mr. Harris would operate bene- 
ficially for both the young people. An uncle might 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 8i 

well have found it possible to refuse a service at a 
critical moment in his nephew's life, but, however 
stern he might be towards other people, a father 
was naturally soft towards a son ; even the error 
which was the origin of this son's being was evidence 
of a human weakness that argued favourably for Tom 
and Mary's chances. So Mrs. Darby took comfort 
from where she could. People in Bristol were glad 
to see her again, and curiosity in the circumstances 
of Mary's marriage added cordiality to the welcome 
which was extended to the mother and daughter in 
their visits. 

Of course Mary insisted on going to the 
Minster House, and was agreeably depressed at the ' 
decay into which it had fallen ; the mouldering 
walk, the shattered nursery windows, provided her 
with food for those melancholy reflections which she 
liked to think exhibited her soul in its true character. 
She did not look forward to her presentation at 
Tregunter, and she could not understand why Tom 
had made her apply to the money broker. Were 
his affairs already so involved that he could not 
provide her with a few guineas without borrowing 
them .'' She began to wish that she had given Tom 
less excuse for his reticence by her own silence during 
the first few weeks of their marriage. But even now, 
after she had been a wife nearly four months, she 
was under sixteen, and with all the misfortunes of 
the Darby ladies they had never been obliged to have 
recourse to people like Mr. King to help them through 
their difficulties ; though what the Captain may have 
done was another matter. Mrs. Darby spoke lightly 
enough of Tom's embarrassments to her daughter ; 

6 



82 PERDITA 

she feared he had been Indiscreet, had perhaps unduly 
exceeded his allowance on the strength of his expecta- 
tions, but with care and the help of Mr. Harris all 
would soon be put into good order. 

Tom returned in high spirits ; he was certain when 
his uncle saw Mary every shade of resentment would 
disappear. " Your smile," said he, " would melt 
the stone walls of the Methodist seminary itself" 
Mary laughed as he kissed her. Occasionally in his 
mirthful sallies Tom reminded her of her father. The 
wind was high when they took leave of Mrs. Darby, 
and Mary looked pale at the thought of a rough 
crossing in an open boat to Chepstow. But Tom 
raised her spirits by letting loose his own. He was 
both tender and cheerful, and Mrs. Darby noted with 
satisfaction the care with which he wrapped a shawl 
round her before she stepped into the boat. The 
tide was high and the night was boisterous. "At 
least he loves her," mused Mrs. Darby, as she made 
her way through a crowd of sailors on the quay, 
after bidding them farewell. She felt very lonely. 
Her thoughts wandered to the son she had left in 
London, for it had been arranged that he was to lodge 
at his sister's house. She wondered how her eldest 
son was faring in Leghorn. Her heart ached for the 
two children she had lost. Now Mary was gone. 
The scene of that departure, the smell of the sea and 
the tumble of the waves, forced her memory, reluctant 
as it was, back to the day on which Captain Darby had 
taken ship for America. Had she only summoned 
up courage to accompany him, how different all might 
have been ! Her tears fell fast as she trudged wearily 
in the direction of the winking lights of Bristol town. 



IX 

The fatigue of a long journey and the novelty of 
the scenery through which she passed helped to 
diminish Mary's apprehensions as to how she would 
be received at Tregunter. She was glad to exchange 
the tossing of the boat on that tempestuous night for 
the jolting of the stage coach. The passengers to 
Chepstow had been numerous, and the unfamiliarity 
of the experience assumed the aspect of a nightmare 
as she had turned from the drawn faces of men and 
women to look at the terrified drove of oxen at the 
other end of the boat. She was almost grateful when 
at last she came within sight of the Harris estate. 
Tom had entreated her to overlook any harshness 
in his uncle's manners and she had consented to 
conceal her age, a flattering precaution to one so 
young, and harmless enough in view of her husband's 
description of his wife to Mr. Harris before her 
arrival. 

The early morning air warmed by a generous sun, 
the smell of the earth, the twittering of the birds, and 
the cool rushing of mountain streams were infinitely 
refreshing to the girl as she drove with her husband 
at her side through the tranquil forest. Her face 
wore that air of pensive melancholy subsequently 
Immortalised by Mr. Gainsborough in his picture, 
when the postboy stopped at the stately mansion of 

83 



84 PERDITA 

Tregunter. Mr. Harris immediately came out from 
the adjoining cottage. The warmth of his embrace 
left no doubt as to the favourable nature of the 
/ impression she had made upon him. At the same 
time she was sensible of having awakened very dif- 
ferent feelings in her husband's sister, who appeared 
behind Mr. Harris on the threshold. Each of the 
young ladies had taken in the costume of the other 
in the rapid glance peculiar to women on such occa- 
sions. It would indeed have been difficult to jfind a 
sharper contrast than that provided by Miss Betsy's 
gaudy chintz gown and thrice-bordered cap and 
Mary's claret-coloured riding habit and white beaver 
hat, from which the white feathers nodded bravely 
in the breeze. On being duly presented to her 
sister-in-law by Tom, Miss Betsy with an air at once 
patronising and frigid took her by the hand and led 
her into the house. Mrs. Molly's pinched face seemed 
to suffer a twinge of added sharpness as she was con- 
fronted with the elegant young lady, and poor Mary 
felt that the ladies had prejudged her, and that it 
would be difficult for them even to preserve an 
appearance of cordiality. Mr. Harris made matters 
worse by apologising for the rough simplicity of the 
household. 

" We have no style up here," said he, gazing with 
impertinent admiration at his daughter-in-law. " But 
I knew the town before Tom, and made many a 
waistcoat for the quality, and I know a fine face 
when I see one, Mrs. Robinson." 

Mrs. Molly thought fit to change the course of the 
conversation by inquiring for particulars of the journey, 
and while Tom was satisfying her, a servant entered 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 85 

to ask where he should dispose the boxes of the 
young couple. This necessitated an adjournment to 
the little entrance hall of the cottage, and Mr. Harris 
insisted on coming too. He laughed heartily at the 
wry faces of Mrs, Molly and Miss Betsy when they 
saw four boxes of unwieldy dimensions. 

'* That's right," cried he. " I'm glad to see you 
encourage the milliners in their trade. As for Tom, he 
was always fond of finery. Zounds, but the neighbours 
will stare when they see so many fine clothes," 

It took two servants to handle the boxes, and the 
stairs creaked under the weight as they struggled up 
them. Mrs. Molly shouted her commands from below 
as if she were a general reviewing troops ; but as she 
ignored the geographical difficulties under which the 
servants laboured, it was impossible to carry out her 
instructions. Miss Betsy shrugged her shoulders and 
looked reproachfully at Tom, as much as to insinuate 
that he at least might have had more consideration 
than to dislocate the household arrangements so un- 
necessarily. Neither of the ladies paid the slightest 
attention to Mary, who blushed and excused herself 
again and again as she turned to her husband and 
cried, '* Oh, Tom, why did you not tell me ? " But 
Mr. Harris held his sides and laughed throughout 
the whole of the operations. 

'* 'Tis a pity the mansion is not yet finished," cried 
he. " There will be room and to spare when it is 
up. This cottage is a poor hole. But you must 
come again later, Mrs, Robinson, when Molly has 
had time to prepare for you," and then he burst into 
a fresh fit of laughter as the boxes fell with a crash 
upon the upper landing. 



86 PERDITA 

Mrs. Molly was furious. 

" This minx is already turning the Squire's head," 
she observed in a whisper to Miss Betsy. " Take 
care that she does not ogle her way into his fortune ; 
she has the face to do it." 

Mary soon realised that the difficulties of her 
position were none the less great for coming from 
so unexpected a quarter. The bitterness of the ladies 
and the cordiality of Mr. Harris deepened in measures 
of almost mathematical equality. There were moments 
in the course of those three weeks when Mary almost 
/ preferred the scorn of the females to the coarse admira- 
tion of " the Squire." But she was as powerless to 
silence the one as she was innocent of any deliberate 
intentions of awakening the other. Tom's air of easy 
indifference to the humiliations inflicted upon her was 
a source of pain to Mary and of exasperation to Miss 
Betsy, who frequently reminded her brother of his duty 
to look after his young wife. " Public opinion here 
will not permit Mary to be so constantly abroad with 
Mr. Harris without drawing undesirable conclusions 
from the fact," said she. But Tom only smiled. Was 
it for him to question the propriety of his wife's con- 
duct.^ So Mary found herself obliged to ride and 
even to drink ale with " the Squire," and it was the 
drollest sight imaginable to see the portly old gentleman, 
in his brown fustian coat and gold-laced hat, riding a 
small Welch pony with the beautiful young lady in her 
fashionable habit mounted on a grey mare at his side. 
At first Miss Betsy followed them on horseback, with 
a woollen petticoat drawn over the skirt of her dress 
to guard against rain, and a high-crowned bonnet on 
her head ; but she grew tired of the superior attention 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 87 

commanded by Mary whenever they chanced upon an 
acquaintance, and Mr. Harris took no pains to conceal 
his irritation at his daughter's presence. Rather than 
force her company any longer upon them to so little 
purpose, she took, solace in secret conversation with 
Mrs. Molly on her father's delinquencies ; and the 
two women would watch the departure of *' the Squire " 
and his daughter-in-law from an upper window in the 
cottage and indulge their ill-feeling in many a con- 
temptuous observation. 

In the evening Mr. Harris always asked Mary to 
sing and play to him, and the sweetness of her voice 
and the amiabiUty with which she complied with his 
request were constant sources of envy to the other 
women. 

" You have sung the Squire to sleep," observed 
Mrs. Molly with malicious satisfaction one evening, 
when in fact the effects of more ale than usual had 
outweighed the animating influence of his Mary's music. 
Mary glanced from the harpsichord to the massive 
figure of Mr. Harris whose head had fallen forward 
upon his breast in an attitude at once solemn and 
comical. She rose from the instrument and asked 
leave to retire ; but ^the opportunity was too valuable 
for Mrs. Molly to miss, and she answered with some 
asperity : 

" Is the company of .your husband's sister — to say 
nothing of myself — obnoxious to you, Mrs. Robinson, 
that you should be so eager to withdraw from it ? " 

'* I was afraid my presence might disturb the freedom 
of your conversation," Mary answered. Miss Betsy 
tittered. 

" We do not pretend," continued Mrs. Molly, 



88 PERDITA 

" either to dress or to talk in the latest London fashion. 
Neither Miss Robinson nor myself place an exaggerated 
value upon the ornamental aspects of society." 

Mary would have liked to add, " nor upon the 
common civilities of life," but she preferred to hold her 
peace ; and she was right in assuming that such a 
course was far more embarrassing to her ill-natured 
critics than any remarks she could have made. The 
strain of the situation was made all the more painful 
for the sleeping presence of Mr. Harris, and it was as 
much as Mary could do to refrain from laughing out- 
right as it became more and more obvious in the 
silence of the room that " the Squire" was snoring. 

'*You will excuse my frankness, Mrs. Robinson," 
said Miss Betsy at last, " but the accidental nearness 
of our relationship makes me reluctant to permit any 
misunderstanding between us which a tactful exhibition 
of candour can clear up. I feel it my duty then to in- 
form you that the style of your dress appears to me, and 
I believe also to Mrs. Molly " (here the other lady 
bowed), ''highly inappropriate. A lawyer's wife has 
no right to dress like a duchess. You may indeed be 
very accomplished, but here we look first to the merits 
or deficiencies of the housewife ; and a good housewife, 
you will agree, has less occasion for harpsichords and 
books than persons more idly occupied. Of course 
you are young, and it is for Tom to form the character 
of his wife. But perhaps you are willing to take a 
hint." 

If this was a hint, Mary wondered what her sister- 
in-law would regard as plain speaking. " I always 
imagined," said she simply, *' that such matters were 
the concern of the private person." 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 89 

" Quite true," said Mrs. Molly with the air of one 
making a generous concession. "But when a young 
woman is married she ceases to be a private person in 
the sense you indicate. If she has a private fortune, 
as is often the case, she may still exercise her private 
taste with some show of reason. In the present 
instance, however, the circumstances are entirely 
different, and circumstances must always be allowed to 
alter cases." 

Mary flushed under the coolness of the insult. 

" Nay, but, Madam " she cried, rising suddenly from 

the chair in which she had seated herself in deference 
to their wish that she should not withdraw. At the 
noise made by the moving of her chair, Mr. Harris 
began to stir. 

" Were my husband present " cried Mary hotly. 

'' What's the matter, Mary ? " shouted Mr. Harris, 
blinking and stretching his limbs with ugly freedom. 
" Is Molly teasing you .'' " Then starting to his feet, 
" Damn me if you shall say a word against her, either 
of you," cried he in the voice that made them quake. 
" Mary's perfect : she's too good for Tom. I would 
have liked her for my own wife if she had not married 
the young rascal. Go on playing, Mary my dear, and 
never mind what they say. They don't count for 
much, either of them." 

But Mary begged to be excused and hastily fled 
from the room, leaving the terrified Molly and Miss 
Betsy to the mercy of Mr. Harris in one of his formid- 
able outbursts of temper. 

When Tom entered his wife's room that night, he 
found her crying. He had been out fishing all day 
and had supped with the rest of the fishing party, so 



90 PERDITA 

that he had not reached the cottage until the household 
had retired. Mary told him what had happened, and 
begged him to make arrangements for their speedy 
departure. No good could be effected by prolonging 
the visit ; the jealousy of the ladies, which had already 
carried their behaviour far outside the bounds of 
decorum, was likely to increase. So long as she stayed 
they would attempt to poison the mind of Mr. Harris 
against " the interloper." Tom saw the wisdom of her 
counsels, praised her for her patience, and the next 
morning announced that business summoned him to 
Bristol, and that he could not postpone his departure 
for more than a few days. Mrs. Molly and Miss 
Betsy found it difficult to conceal their satisfaction at 
the news. Mr. Harris laughingly suggested Tom 
should leave his wife at Tregunter, and, content with 
the vexation inflicted upon the ladies by his remark, 
said no more. 

The morning of departure dawned upon a scene of 
much confusion in Mary's room. Mrs. Molly had 
offered to help pack the boxes, but the proposal had 
been politely declined. The carriage was ordered for 
noon, and Mary occupied all her time in getting her 
things into order. Mr. Harris, Mrs. Molly, and Miss 
Betsy once more stood in the hall as the boxes were lifted 
downstairs, and no comment was passed this time on 
their dimensions. Tom kissed his sister. Mary shook 
her hand coldly enough, and then in bidding a similar 
farewell to Mrs. Molly contrived to murmur a few 
words of thanks for the trouble taken to make her 
apartments comfortable during her stay. Mr. Harris 
embraced Tom, the door was opened, and Mary 
was about to submit to a kiss from her '* uncle," when 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 91 

to the consternation of the whole party Mr. Harris 
suddenly declared his intention of accompanying the 
young couple as far as Bristol. 

*' I will have your farewell kiss, Mary, and I will 
come too," he cried, as he hugged her and took up his 
hat. 

" But there are a thousand things awaiting your 
decision for the new mansion," exclaimed Mrs. Molly. 

" Let them wait," cried he. " I have a mind to buy 
many things in Bristol. You shall help choose 
them," he added turning to Mary, " for they are all 
for Tom and you when I am no more." 

Miss Betsy shed tears of vexation ; if she had only 
known this was his intention she would have made 
preparations for accompanying him. 

" But you cannot go yet, for your bag is not 
packed. You have no warm clothes for the crossing — 
think of the consequences to your health, sir." 

" Damn consequences ! I will see this lady safe across 
the Channel ! " cried Mr. Harris. *' And damn me if I 
listen any more to all your talk ! My mind is made up to 
go now, and go I will. You can send the bag after 
me. And take care you forget nothing." 

So saying he ran out and jumped into the carriage 
in which Mary had already taken her seat in her 
anxiety to escape as quickly as possible from the scene 
of contention in the hall. Tom jumped up beside 
the postboy, and the horses broke into a brisk trot. 
A turn in the road brought them again within sight 
of the cottage, and Mr. Harris laughed and waved 
his hat defiantly at the two women, who still stood 
where they had been left on the threshold of the 
door. From the vehemence of their gestures it was 



92 PERDITA 

evident that they were engaged in angry altercation. 
*' I am heartily sick of their company," said the 
justice of the peace turning his hat round on his 
head, for in the excitement of departure he had put 
it on with the button on the wrong side. " And 
I am longing to make the acquaintance of Mrs. 
Darby," he added, smiling at Mary. Tom laughed 
immoderately ; and Mary, confused as she was by 
" the Squire's " sudden resolution, could not help 
experiencing satisfaction at the discomfiture of her 
female critics. 

On their arrival in Bristol Mr. Harris was duly 
presented to Mrs. Darby, and so much rejoiced was she 
at the success of Mary's introduction, that she found it 
easy to overlook the roughness of his manners. He 
accompanied the ladies on many a visit to their friends, 
and was included in invitations to many dinner parties. 
It was generally remarked that Mr. Harris was un- 
usually active for a man of his years, and when he sang 
and danced with Mary, the delight of the spectators at 
the gaiety of his spirits was expressed in huzzas of 
applause which stimulated him to fresh exertions. 
Mrs. Darby asked Tom if he did not feel jealous at the 
attention bestowed by Mr. Harris on his wife, but 
Tom was too happy to pay much heed to the question ; 
nor was Mrs. Darby serious when she asked it. Mr. 
Wayman, to whom she had from their first acquaintance 
taken a fancy, now appeared not only in the light of 
a friend but as a wise prophet. Did he not predict that 
all would go well when once Mr, Harris was confronted 
with Tom's wife ? The mother had been throup:h a 
period of heavy anxiety, and was only too glad to 
repose in the security offered for the welfare of her 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 93 

daughter in Mr. Harris's enthusiastic reception. He 
took Mary with him whenever he went in search of 
embellishments for Tregunter House. He made her 
select the marble chimney-pieces, and commissioned her 
to engage the services of an artist in London to 
decorate the walls. When the day came for his return 
to Wales he grew quite melancholy, wished he was 
Tom's age and had had Tom's luck ; and when at last, 
after waving a farewell at the party until the coach was 
almost out of sight, he put his head within the window, 
Mrs. Darby and Mary and Tom for a few minutes felt 
quite depressed at his departure. 

How had Mary conquered him so completely? 
Was it by coaxing and wheedling .'' By clever 
machinations and artful speeches .? Not at all. She 
had an instinctive aversion for what was uncouth. She 
disliked the company of Mr. Harris, but she would 
still more have disliked to give him even the smallest 
opportunity of guessing at her antipathy. Circum- 
stances entailed upon her the necessity of being, for 
a time at least, much in his presence. Her own 
nature compelled her to exercise politeness even under 
much provocation. She had not wanted at all to visit 
Tregunter. Her composure during her stay there had 
attracted Mr. Harris and offended Mrs. Molly and 
Miss Betsy. By the art of doing nothing and looking 
a great deal she had crept into the old man's heart, and 
the discovery of having bivouac'd there puzzled herself 
no less than it delighted the others. Beauty such as 
this girl possessed cannot be turned on and off like 
a garden hose for the watering of a particular flower at 
the will of the owner. Occasionally it escapes on a 
marauding expedition of its own into strange regions 



94 PERDITA 

and brings back captives that the conqueror can 
recognise as the casual spoil of illegitimate warfare. So 
Mary's beauty had strayed, and the girl of scarce 
sixteen had innocently beguiled the old man of seventy 
into the subservience of a willing slave. 



X 

On their return to London the Robinsons moved 
from the old house in Great Queen Street to No. 13, 
Hatton Garden, a modern building better suited 
for the domestic requirements and the fashionable 
life of the young couple. Tom had a pretty taste in 
furniture, and the house presented all the attractions 
of luxury tempered with elegance. A handsome 
phaeton was bought for Mary, and saddle horses for 
Tom. Mrs. Darby remained in Bristol, and Mary 
now made her public debut in what she afterwards 
described as the " broad hemisphere of fashionable 
folly." 

Tom took his young wife to Ranelagh, bought 
a sprig of myrtle for her in the ante-room, and was 
highly delighted at the attention she aroused by the 
simplicity of her costume, for she still adhered to her 
Quaker style and wore close round cuffs instead of long 
ruffles and left her hair without powder. On the 
opening of the winter season at the Pantheon, Oxford 
Road, the Robinsons paid an early visit to this glitter- 
ing scene of entertainment. Designed originally as 
a counterblast to the notorious assembly rooms of Mrs. 
Cornelys in Soho Square and opened in 1771, this 
Pantheon must not be confused with the Little 
Pantheon of Spa Fields. The two places of amuse- 
ment were advertised respectively in the papers as the 

95 



96 PERDITA 

Nobility's and the Mobility's ; but although the Little 
Pantheon was visited chiefly by journeymen tailors, 
hairdressers, milliners and servant maids, and the 
aristocracy patronised the statelier building, there was 
ground for supposing the division between Nobility 
and Mobility to represent a distinction without a 
difference in the troubled reign of good King George 
the Third. 

Mary dressed with elaborate care for the Pantheon. 
Her love of clothes, as we have seen, was no artificial 
passion for utilising opportunities to attract the gaze of 
the curious. She liked to satisfy her own sense of 
beauty and propriety in whatever she wore, and the 
singularity of her costume was rather a sign of the 
courage which empowered her to pursue her own 
ideals than of an audacious impulse to fly in the face of 
accepted conventions. Large hoops and high feathers 
were then the fashion ; to have worn them would have 
been to extinguish the graces of the bird under its 
plumage. She preferred a habit of pale pink satin 
trimmed with broad sable and a suit of rich point lace, 
the gift of her mother, who herself had worn it in her 
younger days. Tom thought his wife an unconscionable 
time dressing on this occasion ; and so she was, for the 
knowledge that she was to become a mother increased 
the care which she bestowed upon her person. When 
they entered the Rotunda the girl thought herself in 
fairyland. The variegated lights reflected from the glazed 
dome, the music, the glitter of the company moving 
about pillars of mock giallo antico as if in the maze of 
some intricate and stately dance, the circular shape of the 
promenade — all helped to produce an effect of absorb- 
ing enchantment. Tom drew her attention to several 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 97 

of the ladies — the beautiful Countess of Tyrconnel, 
Lady Townshend, and Lady Almeria Carpenter, with 
whom one of the King's married brothers was said 
to be deeply in love. After a tour round the Rotunda 
they took a seat on a sofa in an alcove in ord^ to 
observe the passers-by with more leisure. On the 
opposite sofa a lady was engaging two young men 
in conversation. From where she sat Mary heard one 
ask the other, after a glance in her direction, " Who 
is she .'' " Tom had missed the observation ; his eyes 
roved restlessly amid the moving throng, and he rose 
at Mary's bidding and walked away from the neigh- 
bourhood of the strangers without guessing the motive 
of his wife's desire to take another turn round the 
building. As they walked, however, they were met by 
the young men from the opposite direction, and this 
time they both heard the question addressed to a 
third gentleman : " Who is that young lady in the 
pink dress trimmed with sable ? " Tom smiled, but 
Mary frowned. She wished now she had put on hoop 
and powder, if she must pay for the singularity of her 
costume with the embarrassment which she felt at 
becoming a topic of curiosity to strangers. She was 
entreating her husband to take her home before the 
disconcerting experience was repeated, when the gentle- 
man to whom the young men had so audibly addressed 
their question, advanced towards her, and with a bow 
of marked civility, " Miss Darby, or I am mistaken," 
said he. 

Startled at being thus addressed, Mary looked coldly 
at the speaker and recognised Lord Northington. 

*' My name is now changed to that of Robinson," 
she said ; " this gentleman is my husband." 

7 



98 PERDITA 

Lord Northington expressed apologies for his mis- 
take, and delight at the circumstances which disclosed 
it to him. He continued to walk with Tom and Mary, 
and made many enquiries after Captain Darby. After 
a single turn round the room, he expressed the hope 
that he might be permitted to pay his respects to Mr. 
and Mrs. Robinson ; and on Tom's informing him of 
their place of abode, made a profound bow and took 
his leave of them, in time to join a group of ladies and 
gentlemen whose presence in the Rotunda he had just 
noticed, 

Tom and Mary now entered the tea-room, but 
finding no vacant seats, returned to the Rotunda and 
seated themselves near the door, for the heat of the 
room made Mary feel vapourish. She would have liked 
to bid Tom fetch a cup of tea for her, but feared to be 
left alone ; and they had just decided to depart 
altogether when Lord Northington appeared with a cup 
of tea and at the same time presented the two strangers, 
his friends Lord Lyttelton and Captain Ayscough. As 
Mary said afterwards when they were driving home, 
" I was grateful for the tea, but could well have dis- 
pensed with the introductions." But Tom called her 
unduly severe ; it must be counted rather as the mis- 
fortune than the fault of these gentlemen that she had 
overheard their persistent enquiries, but where was the 
harm in seeking a ceremonious presentation on the 
strength of an agreeable impression ? She had nothing 
to censure in Lord Northington's behaviour, and could 
scarcely blame him fordoing sucha service for his friends, 
Mary did not pursue the argument, for she was too tired, 
but she had disliked the glances of Lord Lyttelton, who 
had stood by her while Tom went to seek the carriage. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 99 

The Captain had looked as if he grudged his com- 
panion the privilege of her proximity, for he could not 
approach her from the other side without taking up an 
awkward position in the doorway. Both had claimed 
rather than besought permission to visit her, with 
an easy effrontery which she had not known how to 
disconcert. 

Tom was out when all three gentlemen paid their 
visit of ceremony on the following morning. Lord 
Lyttelton enquired with much solicitude after Mr. 
Robinson, and professed an earnest desire to cultivate 
his acquaintance. Mary felt a kindlier disposition 
towards Northington than towards the other two, who, 
she now learned, were cousins and had been school- 
fellows at Eton. They asked if she was acquainted 
with Mr. Fitzgerald, a contemporary of theirs at the 
same school, and on Mary replying in the negative, 

" You must know him, Mrs. Robinson," said 
Lyttelton. 

" And beware of him," said Northington with a 
chivalrous glance at Mary. 

The others laughed. 

" His success with the women is so universal, so 
terrific in its scale, that Juan himself would have 
feared him for a rival," said Lyttelton. " But his 
company is nectar and ambrosia to wits like myself, 
and 1 am sure Mr. Robinson would find much in 
him to admire." 

Mary disliked the tone of Lyttelton's conversation, 
and was glad when the visit came to an end. Tom 
was much entertained with her account of what had 
passed. He knew more about both Fitzgerald and 
Lyttelton than he cared or thought it prudent to 



loo PERDITA 

tell Mary. Had they not both figured in the famous 
Vauxhall dispute when Mrs. Hartley had been stared 
out of countenance by a party of Macaronies .'' 
This was the case that had disturbed Mrs. Darby 
when Mary was bent on becoming an actress ; and 
in the exchange of public correspondence Fitzgerald 
had come out in an ugly light, for not only was it 
clear that he had championed an offence against 
manners, but in the fight which resulted he had 
instructed his footman to impersonate a captain with 
a wholly imaginary grievance, so that to the effrontery 
of the rake he had added the vices of the impostor. 

"No Irishman ever bullied and swore more than 
fighting Fitz," admitted Lyttelton to Tom when they 
fell upon the matter in conversation, " and yet with 
all his faults I love him. He is the most quarrelsome 
dog alive ; no man is so forward to provoke a duel. 
His rage is an explosion. But as often as not it has 
no more meaning than the noise of the new fireworks 
at Vauxhall. They say he rarely faces his man in 
a duel without some cowardly artifice. Are swords 
the weapons ? Fitz lines his waistcoat with elastic. 
Pistols ? Down he drops on one knee as his adversary 
fires. And yet there is always good sport where he 
is. Garrick himself is not a better actor. 'Tis as good 
as any play to watch him in a brawl. When his 
blood is up his eyes look like oysters ; but at a 
moment's notice the dog can conjure into them the 
melting ' Madam-you-pierce-my-soul ' effect which no 
woman of sensibility can resist." 

Tom was quite willing to make the acquaintance 

of Lyttelton's Irish friend, and he took a great liking 

/ for Lyttelton himself. This young man had inherited 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY loi 

some of the talents and none of the virtues of his 
father " the good " Lord Lyttelton, whose verses Mary 
used to sing when she was a child. The first baron 
had died barely a couple of years ago, but this event, 
which was publicly lamented, had not arrested his 
son's private course of profligacy. From the time 
when, although no more than a youth of nineteen, 
his engagement to General Warburton's daughter had 
been broken off on the discovery of the vicious life 
he had led in his travels in France and Italy, he 
had been a source of shame and trouble to his family. 
His literary taste and an engaging frankness in his 
address gave added prominence to his unblushing ex- 
cesses, which were a source of universal condemnation. 
But his talents were hardly less notorious than his 
intrigues. It was known that he painted well and 
that Mrs. Montagu had stamped his work with the 
blue seal of her admiration. Shortly before his father's 
death he had married a widow, and it was thought 
that the wild youth had settled down ; but he soon 
revived the memory of his earlier infamies by deserting 
the company of his wife for that of a barmaid. He 
had a town house in Hill Street, Berkeley Square, and 
a country seat at Hagley. Rank and a great fortune 
were now added to the possession of a handsome 
figure and lively parts. Tom thought himself very 
fortunate to have secured the intimacy of so influential 
and fascinating a personage, nor could Mary point 
to anything in his behaviour towards herself which 
merited any open expression of disapproval. 

On her second visit to the Pantheon Lord Lyttelton 
acted as her cavaliere servente during the evening ; but 
the major part of his attention was bestowed upon 



I02 PERDITA 

Tom, and Mary felt almost vexed at the cool disdain 
of his manner towards her. He spoke to her as if 
she were a child, and confined his conversation to 
literary topics, as if he were amusing himself by an 
attempt to discover her tastes. During the concert 
he introduced her to Count Belgiojoso, whom a few 
years before the Empress Maria-Theresa had sent 
Ambassador to London. The Count was then in his 
forty-eighth year, had a large house in Portman Square, 
and was already famous for that love of gallantry 
which led him later to erect a little temple in the 
Park at Brussels and dedicate it to Venus. When 
he could engage Lyttelton in a few minutes' private 
conversation he asked him all about his fair little 
friend who looked %o pe till ante in her gown of white 
and silver. Mr. William Brereton of Drury Lane 
Theatre was also presented to Mary, a spirited youth 
with a wild look in his eye and an extravagant address 
that left no doubt of his profession. 

About this time Mary felt renewed curiosity in her 
husband's financial condition. Mrs. Parry, wife of 
the reverend Doctor Parry, and the talented authoress 
of the novel " Eden Vale," had shown an anxious 
friendship for the young woman who moved so 
guilelessly in a circle as dangerous as it was fashionable. 
She seemed surprised that Mrs. Robinson should be 
so ill-informed of her husband's business concerns, 
and her surprise deepened into suspicion when Mary 
confessed to her that since their return to London 
her husband had been much away from her company, 
seldom attending to his profession, but making 
numerous excursions to Lord Lyttelton's seat at Hagley 
and frequently remaining out till the early hours of 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 103 

the morning. This good woman would frequently 
spend the evening with Mary in Hatton Garden, and 
without pressing her advice unwisely she sought every 
occasion on which to urge her young companion to 
demand an explanation from her husband. 

But Tom's replies gave his wife no satisfactory 
assurance when she taxed him with his repeated 
absences and with his indifference to the financial 
stability of their household. If she was lonely, he 
would see to it that there should be more company 
at Hatton Garden ; he had imagined in her present 
condition she would prefer a life of retirement ; as 
for their expenses, he was independent enough, and 
such matters were not a woman's concern. He did 
not question her on what she spent on her wardrobe, 
and he was indignant that she should stir up this 
irksome topic at all. 

" Lyttelton has promised to obtain for me a position 
of some importance — and that very shortly," said he ; 
and under the plea of wishing to discuss the matter 
more frequently, he invited his friend more frequently 
to Hatton Garden. Parties were also made to his 
lordship's house in Hill Street, and here Mary met 
again the courtly Imperial Ambassador on whom she 
had made so lively an impression at the Pantheon. 

In idle moments she began again to occupy herself 
with her poetry, receiving much encouragement from 
Mrs. Parry, whose sympathy was all the more acceptable 
for the tone of insolent superiority which crept into 
Lyttelton's voice whenever he spoke of Mary's literary 
gifts. He would call her " the child poetess " to 
her face, and irritate her still more by expressing the 
hope that she would forgive his little innocent sallies. 



I04 PERDITA 

His talk was frequently licentious, and the erudition 
which he mixed with his wanton observations added 
audacity to a natural indifference to the sensibility of 
chaste minds. 

" No woman under thirty," said he once, with a 
mischievous glance at Mary, " is worth admiring. 
Even the antiquity of forty is far preferable to the 
insipidity of sixteen," and then he quoted some lines 
from Horace at which Tom laughed. 

One evening Tom brought a new friend to Hatton 
Garden, a light, wiry young man wearing very wide 
frills and ruffles and carrying a cane with an unusually 
large gold knob. An exuberant splendour dis- 
tinguished his dress in every particular. He moved 
with a mixture of rapidity and ease. His manner 
was none the less impressive for its mobility. Lyttelton 
and Tom continued an animated discussion which 
they had entered upon before stepping into the room. 
As Mary rose to receive the stranger she was im- 
pressed with the involuntary deference in his look 
and in his bow. She had greeted Lord Lyttelton 
as superficially as the laws of civility permitted. Her 
interest in the newcomer had been awakened even 
^ before she had been made acquainted with his name. 
This was Mr. George Robert Fitzgerald. He was 
utterly different from what she had expected — strikingly 
different from Lord Lyttelton, who had expressed so 
warm an admiration for him. He spoke very little, 
and divided his attention with easy equality between 
Mary and Mrs. Parry. The presence of the other 
gentlemen had no power to disturb the serenity and 
the whole-heartedness of his devotion to the ladies. 
His eyes were remarkably expressive. To Mary 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 105 

they appeared to shine with a manly and yet curiously 
tender lig^ht. His voice was musical, and his whole 
presence radiated a soft geniality in marked contrast 
with the boisterous hilarity of Lyttelton. Mrs. Parry 
herself admitted the charm of his personality afterwards 
to Mary — all the more readily because Mr. Fitzgerald 
had in the most delicate manner conveyed to her 
his appreciation of her literary talents, while Lord 
Lyttelton did not scruple by the arrogance of his 
address to conceal his poor opinion of the authoress 
of " Eden Vale." 

" There is a wide difference between these two 
men," said she. " I cannot look at Lord Lyttelton's 
unbashful forehead without a shudder of repugnance. 
Mr. Fitzgerald has indeed a terrible reputation. But 
I should say that his gallantry came from the heart, 
and the other's from the head. Lyttelton is the 
handsomer, I grant you." 

Mary agreed with her friend. Mr. Fitzgerald had 
puzzled her. He seemed to divine the secret grief 
that was tugging at her heart for the shameless conduct 
of her husband. Once she had caught Mr. Fitzgerald 
looking at Lord Lyttelton with an air of sad reproach, 
as if betrayed by the natural goodness of his heart 
into naked pity at her defenceless situation. Tom's 
absences grew more frequent. She knew that Lyttelton ^ 
had introduced him at " Arthur's," and that he played 
high. Fortunately the luck until now seemed to be 
on his side ; but she sighed when she thought of 
what might happen when the tide turned. There 
were times when she longed for the company of her 
mother and cried at the thought of what that mother 
must have suffered with a reticence into which her 



io6 PERDITA 

own sorrows now forced her to penetrate with relent- 
less certainty. Her brother George had returned to 
Bristol ; the delicate state of his health did not permit 
him any longer to live with the Robinsons in London. 
So Mary was alone, and the loneliness of her spirit 
was deepened by the outer brilliance and gaiety of her 
surroundings. 

The change about to come into her life was but 
dimly intelligible to her. In the circle of Tom's 
acquaintances, birth had no meaning apart from rank 
or fortune, marriage was but an added incentive to 
infidelity, death was an impropriety rarely suffered to 
disfigure conversation. Between Mary's daily life and 
her innermost emotions an iron curtain had fallen, 
leaving her (like the spectator at a performance in 
which the ghost of himself is the central figure) 
condemned to take part in the plaudits of the audience ; 
as ifj in her case, no more than the satisfaction of a 
passion for amusement were at stake. It was as 
natural for her to like " the music, the lamps, and 
the glare of Vauxhall," as to be pleased at the sight 
of a pretty costume. Dress and the pleasure-garden 
helped to keep the cup of her bitterness from over- 
flowing. She grasped at them with an instinct as 
simple as that of some one catching at the rail of a 
staircase on which he has stumbled. To keep herself 
free from the futile pains of reflection, she now 
r occupied all her spare time in composing verses, and 
was pleasantly engaged one morning in perfecting a 
pastoral when the servant abruptly announced Mr. 
Fitzgerald. ' 

She received him with some embarrassment, 
apologising for the confusion of her table, which was 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 107 

strewn with books and papers. Mr. Fitzgerald asked 
for permission to glance at her pastoral, and his face 
expressed appreciation as his eyes followed the neatly- 
written lines. On laying down the paper he said 
many pretty things of her poetical gift. Then care- 
lessly taking up a volume of Miss Aikin's poems, he 
began to read from them in his low musical voice. 
On coming to the conclusion of the poem he had 
selected, he shut the book, and, without glancing at 
Mary to note the effect of his eloquence, paused before 
replacing it on the table to admire the curious elegance 
of the binding. 

*' 'Twas the gift of Lord Lyttelton," said Mary, by 
way of explanation. 

At the name he started and changed colour. She 
felt at once that she had committed an indiscretion 
in telling him how she had come by the book. 

" Mrs. Robinson," said he, " I cannot help feeling 
the warmest interest for your welfare. I have no 
claim to press my advice upon you. If you would 
prefer not to hear it, I will withdraw. Yet I have 
the strongest reasons for begging you to listen." He 
paused. She nodded a sad assent to his proceeding. 

" Lyttelton is my friend," he went on, speaking in 
a slow, deliberate voice. " Nor did I think that my 
honour would ever allow me to speak in disparage- 
ment of him. My heart is ready to burst when I 
think of the ill service he is doing you by his fatal 
influence over your husband." 

The tears were in Mary's eyes as she rose and 
walked to the window. But the passionate utterance 
of Fitzgerald pursued her, and the words fell from 
him now with increasing vehemence. 



io8 PERDITA 

" I have committed many a sin, Madam, May- 
God forgive me. But, by Heaven, I have never tried 
to seduce a husband from so innocent a wife." 

" You forget," cried Mary through her tears, " that 
he is still my husband." 

"Husband .''" cried Fitzgerald ; andagain — "husband ? 
Is he a husband who can neglect so adorable a creature, 
who is so base a judge of his own happiness as to 
fly from the highest to the lowest, from St. James's 
to St. Giles's ? A few months' marriage, and this is 
to what a husband reduces you ! Condemn the morals 
of the town if you will ; but in our code of chivalry 
we at least have no place for such husbands. Oh, 
Madam," and his voice turned from indignation to 
pleading, " think of what this has cost me — to watch, 
day by day, the honour of one who fired me at first 
sight of her loveliness with the deepest devotion, dwindle 
and peak under the cowardly neglect of an unworthy 
I husband. To know my own friend the abettor in 
this vile transaction ; to feel the tongue tied until 
passion bursts the bonds of friendly prudence and casts 
me, as it does now, at your feet." 

Tempestuously as the words had come, there was 
grace in his manner of kneeling to her now with 
outstretched hand. " Fly with me," he whispered 
" faintly, " and let me preserve, till death itself, that 
innocence which another has not known how to 
treasure." 

" What ! " cries Mary, turning with blanched face 
from the window. Her tears were dry now, and her 
soul was in rebellion at the audacity of his declaration. 
" You would pretend to aid me in my distress, and 
you add another insult to what has already been heaped 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 109 

upon me ! Leave me at once, I beg you, and let me 
forget this shame." Her voice quivered. 

" Never," cries the lover, " until at least I have 
your forgiveness for what the depth of my feelings 
has wrested from me." 

She looked at the stooping figure, and even in her 
anger was unable to evade the appeal, so gloriously 
condign, of his plea for pardon. *' Go, go, I tell 
you ! " she cried, in a voice half of command, half of 
entreaty. *' If indeed your love is no masquerade, 
go quickly. No other way of proof is open to you." 
In an impulse of generosity she held out her hand 
with open palm, as if to seal the pact of her refusal 
of his advances by a handshake as between one man 
and another. 

When she stood alone in the room, and had heard 
the house door close behind him, she stood mutely 
looking at the hand that he had covered with his 
kisses. Then she burst into tears. " I am alone, 
alone," she kept saying to herself, "God help me, I 
am alone." • 



XI 

Lord Lyttelton had repeatedly included Mary in his 
invitations to Hagley, his country seat ; but the tone 
in which she declined each proposal left no hope in 
him that she would ultimately give her consent. She 
knew that Tom frequently accompanied his lordship 
in his excursions from the town, but she felt no wish 
to enquire how he passed his time on these occasions. 
At his house in Hill Street the parties were fashionable, 
but she could not deny the decorum with which they 
were conducted whenever she consented to accompany 
Tom ; and the very freedom which Lyttelton took care 
to allow her, either to join in his parties or to stay 
away from them, without giving offence, set her pride 
in motion and made her eager to show that she 
lacked none of the ability to move easily in a society 
of which she disapproved. Even if she stayed at 
home, her privacy, as has been seen, was not secure 
from invasion. Lyttelton was pleased at her more 
frequent appearance at Hill Street, and showed his 
appreciation by dropping those allusions to her extreme 
youth which in the earlier stage of their acquaintance 
had been so frequently in his mouth. But he looked 
in vain for some sign that a nearer approach to her 
confidence would not meet with a rebuff. She was 
coldly polite, and that was all. He could not help 
feeHng humiliated at the fact that he was the last 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY iii 

person of any at his parties to whom she would 
intentionally address her conversation. " A child she 
is," he reflected to himself ; " a child in years, but a 
grown up she-devil in obstinacy." How to outwit 
the underlying prudence of that obstinacy was a 
problem which he was constantly turning over in his 
mind. He did not even pretend to himself that he 
was in love with her, and had she lent herself more 
readily to his artifices, might even have been willing 
to forego the amusement of adding her to his list 
of victims. But to be thwarted by a mere girl in 
the kind of experience in which he regarded himself 
as a master, hurt his pride and stimulated his ingenuity. 
He had done pretty much as he liked with the husband, 
and must be a poor hand at a contrivance if, in the 
long run, he could not do pretty much as he liked 
with the wife. 

Moreover, Tom was beginning to bore him, and 
the discovery that the man was a tailor's son confirmed 
in Lyttelton the suspicion that his friend was more 
sensible than a gentleman should be of the advantages 
of consorting with the nobility. He had been vexed, 
too, at being dragged into a public defence of this 
Mr. Robinson, who had boldly taken a man before 
the magistrate Sir John Fielding on a charge of 
misappropriating money to his own use. Unfortunately 
the man appeared to be acquainted with all the arcana 
of Tom's business concerns, and began to make ugly 
allusions to letters of credit obtained by Mr. Robinson 
on false representation from Holland, and Ostend, and 
France. The magistrate began to prick up his ears 
and was all for detaining the prosecutor, until the 
situation had been saved by the timely interposition 



112 PERDITA 

of Lord Lyttelton, who swore to the fellow's malevo- 
lence and the considerable fortune of his friend, so 
that the accused was remanded for further examination. 
Thus the threatened revelations were temporarily 
silenced, and the sudden death of the accused before 
the case could be continued, removed the dangers of a 
complete exposure. 

Libertine as he was, Lyttelton had scruples in money 
matters, and disliked to be associated with swindlers, 
nor did he care for openly proclaiming friendship with 
a man-of mercantile pursuits. Robinson was not witty ; 
if it was to turn out that he was not wealthy, his 
claims to a place in fashionable circles would be seriously 
impaired. His wife remained his most substantial asset, 
and Lyttelton cursed the husband for a fool with 
malicious zest when he realised how completely Tom 
had alienated Mary's affections, no less by the stupidity 
(so Lyttelton chose to view the matter) than by the 
depravity of his conduct. Matters had now reached 
a stage when Lyttelton saw that the friendship of the 
husband involved the enmity of the wife, and as it 
yielded but poor satisfaction in itself, he had no scruple 
in sacrificing it to what he deemed to be the needs of 
the situation. 

Calling one forenoon, as was his almost daily custom, 
at Hatton Garden, he enquired if Mr. Robinson was 
at home, and receiving a reply in the negative, requested 
to speak with Mrs. Robinson on important business. 
As soon as he was shown into the room Mary perceived 
by the confusion of his manner that the motive of his 
visit was no ordinary one. 

" The time has come," said he, " to communicate 
to you a secret of great moment to your welfare." 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 113 

" Nothing, I trust, has befallen my husband," said 
Mary quickly, Tom's continued absence since the 
previous evening lending colour to the gravity of her 
anxious supposition. Lyttelton hesitated. 

" How little does that husband deserve the solicitude 
of such a wife," said he. 

" If you have come to betray the confidence of your 
friend," said Mary bitterly, "you might have spared 
yourself the trouble." 

*' Mrs. Robinson, you have always chosen to mis- 
understand me," Lyttelton replied, suddenly veering 
in his tactics. " Until now I have left you free to 
pursue your fancies as to my character and intentions. 
Now I no longer choose that you should do so. You 
will have the goodness to control your natural in- 
dignation and listen as calmly as you can to what 
1 have to say." His tone was deliberately commanding, 
and Mary's curiosity was roused. She made no attempt 
to interrupt him as he continued : 

" At the outset of my acquaintance with Tom I had 
an aversion for him no less decided than what you 
yourself had for me. You did not conceal your 
feelings, but it suited me to conceal mine. So deeply 
impressed was I with your innocence and your beauty 
that I, who thought myself free from any sentiment 
in such matters, found myself perpetually hoping that 
your husband was unlike other men of the world. 
1 wanted to see in him the perfect lover. Experience 
argued strongly against the probability of the facts 
answering to my wish. It was in my power to test 
them by experiment. Your husband sought my ac- 
quaintance more eagerly than I sought his. Had he 
remained faithful to his wife under the temptations to 

8 



114 PERDITA 

which I exposed him, he would have earned my un- 
dying friendship. But I regret to say that he has not 
denied himself a single amusement for his wife's sake. 
He is a person for whom I shall never feel anything 
but an inexhaustible contempt. Whatever he may 
have been when you were ill-fated enough to wed him, 
he is now utterly unfit for the society of his wife. If 
you repeat to him what I still have to tell you, I must 
fight him. I am better at the duel than he is, and I 
shall not show him an inch of mercy." 

" What you say of my husband is false, utterly 
false," said Mary hoarsely. " He will know how to 
exact honourable reparation from you." 

" Had he a spark of honour," replied the merciless 
Lyttelton, "he would not allow me to be talking at 
this hour, in this place, in this way to his wife." 

His audacity staggered Mary. 

" So far," continued he, " I have spoken generally. 
I have now to tell you that your husband is a ruined 
man. His debts are considerable. His affections at 
this moment are centred in Harriet Wilmot, an aban- 
doned character who lives at No. lo, Princes Street, 
Soho, He visits her daily, and has spent large sums on 
her. When I think of the misery to which by his 
conduct he reduces one whose happiness ought to have 
been his first care, I, who have no exaggerated regard for 
the marriage vow, could weep at the insult ojffered to 
your sex. But this is no time to indulge such senti- 
ments. If you are a woman of spirit you will be 
revenged. Leave your husband and place yourself in 
my protection. My fortune is at your disposal, and 
in every other way you may command my powers to 
serve you." 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 115 

He stood quietly watching the effect of each sentence 
as he spoke. In the excitement under which she 
laboured, Mary had taken a volume from the table, 
and was crushing the sheets between her hands as she 
listened to his vile proposition. The beauty of those 
hands was made all the more articulate for the libertine 
as they busied themselves nervously in the work of 
destruction. But after a few moments of silence 
following upon his final words, the book flew across 
the room, the corners of the cover catching in his wig 
and scattering the powder in a cloud about his face. 
As it fell on the floor he recognised the mutilated copy 
of Miss Aikin's poems, which only a few weeks ago 
he had presented to Mrs. Robinson. At the same 
moment the face of the girl, maddened by despair and 
indignation, passed rapidly before his own, and before 
he could move a step to intercept her progress 
she was gone from the room. He heard a cup- 
board door bang in a neighbouring room, and then 
the patter of light feet in tempestuous hurry down 
the stairs. Moving to the window he saw her dart 
across the road and jump into a hackney coach ; nor, 
as he advanced to a mirror to adjust his wig, did he 
doubt to what address she had bidden the man drive. 
An angry look came into his eyes as he stooped to 
pick up the twisted volume and thrust it into his 
bosom. To leave about any evidence of the scene 
which had passed would have been imprudent. Tom 
might return at any moment, and he had no desire to 
he forced by the circumstances into a duel with a 
tailor's son. As he sauntered away slowly down 
Hatton Garden, he remembered that a party had been 
arranged for that evening to Drury I.ane Theatre, and 



ii6 PERDITA 

afterwards to a select concert at Count Belgiojoso's. 
Would anything happen between now and six o'clock 
to prevent Mrs. Robinson taking her seat in the 
playhouse ? He wondered. 

From where she sat in the hackney coach, Mary 
noted the slatternly appearance of the servant-girl who 
opened the door of No. lo, Princes Street, and in 
reply to the coachman's enquiries, informed him that 
her mistress was out, but was expected to return in 
a very short time. She bid the coachman wait, and 
entered the house. The servant looked curiously at 
the visitor's stylish white lawn cloak bordered with 
lace as she conducted her to the drawing-room on the 
first floor, and then left her. 

Now that Mary was about to face the proofs of her 
husband's infidelity in a way which allowed no quarter 
to her sensibility, she was surprised at her own com- 
posure. It was as if the circumstances added a new 
and strange consequence to her individuality. She had 
passed into a new world. The terrors of her passage 
across the Bristol Channel confused themselves in her 
mind with her present situation. She was made callous 
to the danger through the high wave of suspense on 
which she rode. The poverty of the surroundings 
increased her sense of desolation by the contrast it 
offered to the splendour of her own apartments. 
Opening a door at the end of the room, she saw a 
new white lustring sacque and petticoat lying on a 
bed. She tried to master the disorder of her reflections 
by forcing a sequence of events into her brain. She 
was the wife of the man with whom she had crossed 
the sea to Wales on that tempestuous night. Not 
only the wife, but now the outraged wife, the butt of 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 117 

fashionable ridicule. Possibly fresh insult awaited her 
on the entrance of this woman. What interest could 
she be expected to feel in keeping a civil tongue ? As 
Mary cast her eyes round the sordid bedroom, a loud 
knocking at the front door startled her. Quickly she 
re-entered the front room. In the doorway stood 
Harriet Wilmot. 

" I came to enquire whether or not you are ac- 
quainted with a Mr. Robinson," said Mary, glancing 
at the other's black gauze cloak and the lilac ribbons 
in her chip hat. 

In a manner at once sad and confused, Miss Wilmot 
bade her be seated. 

Noting the paleness of her lips and the distress in 
her handsome eyes, " You have no cause for alarm, 
madam," said Mary ; " I have something which I wish 
to convey to Mr. Robinson, and should feel obliged 
if you would favour me with his address." 

As she pronounced her husband's name she recog- 
nised the strangeness in her own voice, and felt 
satisfied of its propriety in this connection. 

" Mr. Robinson visits me frequently," replied Miss 
Wilmot. She drew off her gloves as she spoke, and 
as she passed a hand over her eyes. Mary observed on 
her finger a ring which she knew was Tom's. Miss 
Wilmot withdrew her hand quickly as she noted the 
circumstance. 

" You are Mr. Robinson's wife,'' said she in a voice 
which trembled with sorrow and humiliation. *' I am 
sure you are. Probably this ring was yours. I beg 
you to receive it. Could I have known that Mr. 

Robinson was the husband of such a v/oman " 

She held the ring, which she had slipped from her 



ii8 PERDITA 

finger, towards her visitor in an attitude of suppli- 
cation. 

Mary rose, bowed coldly in spite of the confusion 
which overtook her, and departed. On reaching 
Hatton Garden she found Tom waiting dinner. He 
did not ask her whence she came, and she found no 
difficulty in assuming a tranquillity which she was far 
from feeling. The neatness of his dress which had 
previously commended itself to her taste struck her 
for the first time as ludicrous when she sat at the table 
with him, and she could hardly refrain from smiling 
at his habit of nibbling daintily at a piece of bread. 
Never before had he appeared to her in so comic a 
light. They talked agreeably of the play, the Pantheon, 
and the coming reception at the Imperial Ambassador's. 
Tom thought his wife more than usually sprightly in 
her conversation, and when she had dressed for Drury 
Lane paid her almost as many fine compliments on 
her beauty as when he had been engaged. At Drury 
Lane theatre Mary was quick to take an outer seat 
and to make Tom sit next to her, so as to avoid the 
possibility of having Lyttelton for her neighbour ; but 
the precaution was wasted, for he did not make his 
appearance. The play was a failure. Mrs. Abington, 
whom Mary had recently met in the house of Mrs. 
Parry and thought the most bewitching woman she 
had ever seen, had entered on one of her interminable 
quarrels with Mr. Garrick and excused herself from 
appearing. For the first time Mary's attention 
wandered from the stage. The heat of the theatre 
gave her a violent headache, and to Tom's chagrin he 
was obliged to despatch a messenger to Portman Square 
with an apology for not keeping their engagement ; 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 119 

Mrs. Robinson was suffering from a feverish cold 
which necessitated her remaining within doors for 
some days. 

When they reached Hatton Garden Tom showed 
some readiness to attend to his wife's wants, and 
reminded her that long ago he had proved his capacity 
for nursing. But Mary begged him to leave her, to 
go out where he pleased and not concern himself about 
her ; she needed only the offices of her maid. Tom 
offered to fetch the apothecary. " A pretty case for 
the apothecary ! " cried Mary sharply, and Tom, 
putting -her ill-humour down to her headache, shrugged 
his shoulders and left the house to spend the rest of 
the evening at Vauxhall. When he returned towards 
early morning he stared stupidly at his empty bed- 
room. The servants had retired. Cursing heavily 
as he stumbled to the basement of the house he 
wakened the negro who was lodged there to perform 
the service of watchdog through the night, and on 
enquiring what had become of his wife, he was 
informed by the man that she had retired to a small 
room at the top of the house and had given instruc- 
tions that she was not to be disturbed. 



XII 

It was about this time that William Coombe, who 
subsequently became famous as the author of " Doctor 
Syntax," was writing " The Diaboliad," a poem dedi- 
cated " to the worst man in His Majesty's dominions." 
He had been at Eton with young Lyttelton, and 
although it was not Lyttelton but his own father-in- 
law whom he represented in his poem as the chosen 
occupant of the Infernal throne while Satan goes on 
holiday, the claims of Lyttelton, but for this sole 
exception, stand highest in the list of wicked candi- 
dates ; while Captain Ayscough appears in as con- 
temptible a light as his cousin could have wished. 

To measure the depths of Lyttelton's vices, it is 
necessary to read his own letters, in which the literary 
style is as perfect as the fearless admission of faults 
? is bewildering. His contempt for Mary's literary 
efforts was the natural expression of a brilliant, 
ambitious mind for the flimsy felicities of mediocrity, 
and the existence of the Robinsons altogether repre- 
sented a fact pitilessly minute in the life of the rising 
young statesman whose public integrity was as stainless 
as his private intrigues were unspeakable. 

Little more than a year had elapsed since his father's 
death. " I awoke, and behold I was a lord ! " he wrote. 
It was the turning-point in his career. From the de- 
sultory writing of amorous verse in which he exposed 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 121 

his own turpitude with unblushing exactness, he now 
passed to the conscientious study of oratory ; and his 
speeches in the House of Lords showed results which 
went far to justify the opinion of Dr. Barnard, head- 
master of Eton, who had declared Lyttelton's talents 
superior to those of young Fox. The crisis in 
America gave the budding orator an excellent oppor- 
tunity. He was all for the supremacy of the Crown,"\ 
and contended hotly that the right to govern included 
the right to tax. King George, or even the devil 
himself, could have had no stouter advocate. The 
public eminence into which he rapidly rose rewarded 
him for his activity. He liked to imagine his father's 
friends compelled into admiration for what they would 
regard as this splendid transition from the wildness of 
Prince Hal to the wisdom of King Henry. How 
simple-minded were the majority of men, how reluctant 
to grasp the philosophic axiom that mental perspicacity 
and moral rectitude are not bound together like in- 
separable allies in a man's composition ! 

With Lyttelton the indulgence of private vice added 
zest to the defence of public welfare. To wrong ^ 
individuals and avenge even a look that threatened 
State rights with insult, made life full, various, en- 
grossing. To define treason and affix the stigma of 
legal crime to American rebellion with relentless 
precision in the teeth of Lord Camden with his slippery 
evasions, to champion British supremacy against the 
perils of compromise, even when advocated by the 
Chatham whom he revered, was an exhilarating occu- 
pation. But why should it be less exhilarating to plot 
with all the skill in his power at a young wife's ruin ^ 
A night at Vauxhall with all the diverting minutiae of 



122 PERDITA 

an embroglio was as enjoyable as an afternoon of im- 
passioned debate in the senate. Tom Robinson was 
only one in a little world of blacklegs who were willingly 
suffered to congregate at his lordship's house in Hill 
Street and sponge upon his hospitality for the merri- 
ment which they provided ; and Lyttelton enjoyed the 
rapid passage from the splendour and the consequence 
of the Upper Chamber to the sordid and gay irrespon- 
sibility of subterranean intrigue. 

To involve Tom more deeply in financial embarrass- 
ment he inveigled him into parties made to Richmond 
and Salt Hill, to Ascot Heath and to Epsom, success- 
fully drowning all that lingered of discretion in the 
young reprobate by repeated assurances that he should 
shortly obtain a lucrative and honourable appointment. 
But Mary's artlessness was a match for all his artifice. 
She loathed the sight of him. The arrogance of his 
manner, the slovenliness of his dress, the involuntary 
superiority of his wit, which seemed to invest him with 
an unfair advantage in conversation, all contributed to 
the growth of her aversion. " I believe you would 
rather elope with Fitzgerald than spend half an hour 
in Lyttelton's company," said Tom, and there was 
justice if not truth in the observation. 

It was not surprising that Fitzgerald should win 
her goodwill if not her confidence. Here indeed was 
a lover of another colour. When Squire ConoUy of 
Castletown had shut the high garden gate against this 
Desmond who made soft eyes at his daughter, Fitz- 
gerald put silver shoes to his mare, took the six feet 
at a leap, and caracolled gracefully upon the lawn, to 
the astonishment of the lady, who chanced to be sitting 
at the drawing-room window of the house, and to the 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 123 

mighty indignation of her father. High words passed 
between the Squire and the obstinate suitor, and one 
fine moonlight night soon after, the gallant Captain 
and the young mistress of Castletown eloped in a chaise 
and four. The horses were spankers, and had carried 
the couple far on the road to Dover before the chase 
was given. But they were married next morning, and 
took ship for Calais on their way to Paris. What a 
difference from Lyttelton's marriage with Apphia Witts, 
the unhappy lady towards whom, by his own confession, 
he exhibited " assiduity without love, tenderness without 
sincerity, dalliance without desire." 

In Paris Fitzgerald lost large sums at play to the 
Comte d'Artois ; and Louis XVI., who had heard of 
his daring and his duels, said sulkily, " He ought to 
be brother to Jack the Giant-killer." But after the 
famous stag hunt in the forest of Fontainebleau, in 
which Fitzgerald joined the royal party, the King 
ceased to speak of him in jest. Where the Seine 
crosses the forest was a three-foot wall with a clear 
drop of fourteen feet into the river on the other side. 
The stag made for the wall, and Fitzgerald, forgetting 
the laws of etiquette in the heat of the chase, out- 
stripped the royal party, and before they had had time 
to express their displeasure horse and rider had dis- 
appeared over the wall. Queen Marie Antoinette, a 
mere girl of scarce twenty, shrieked as she saw this 
hot-blooded Irishman jump. The attendant ladies 
shrieked too. But Fitzgerald landed safely with his 
horse on the opposite bank of the river and had 
the honour of bringing the stag to bay before the 
Court could come up. Luckily he had sense enough 
lett to reserve the coup de gnice for the monarch, but 



124 PERDITA 

he was obliged to wait as long as twenty minutes 
until the huntsmen had obtained boats to ferry them 
across the river. 

It was with these honours fresh upon him that he 
was now basking in the sunshine of English fashionable 
life. Towards Mary his manner had been admirably 
restrained since the occasion on which the ardour of 
his emotions had betrayed him into a passionate 
declaration. He had called a few times at Hatton 
Garden, always maintaining a grave demeanour and 
staying but a few minutes. Occasionally, as if by 
inadvertence, some fresh warning against Lyttelton 
would escape from him, but he would check himself 
in the midst of a sentence, and his natural contrition 
secured an immediate pardon for the indiscretion of 
raising that unhappy topic. Thus he had succeeded 
in establishing tranquil relations between Mary and 
himself, and on his proposing that the Robinsons 
should join him in a small party to Vauxhall, Mary 
saw no necessity for declining the invitation. It was 
late in the May of 1775 and a premature midsummer 
heat was upon the town, making the evening air of 
the open pleasure-garden doubly acceptable after 
confinement to the house during the day. 

This was the period of Vauxhall at its meridian 
under Tom Tyers, when the nightingales ceased their 
song to listen to the warbling notes of Mrs. Weichsell, 
when the music lasted until eleven o'clock and the 
company did not go home until the early hours of 
the morning. More than two thousand lights — a pro- 
digious number for those days — burst into a sudden glow 
when the gardens opened. A great statue of Aurora 
stood like a guardian angel at the confines of the 




From an original miniature painting, 

GEORGE ROBERT FITZGERALD. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 125 

grounds, and festive scenes painted on gigantic canvases 
glimmered at the visitor through long vistas of trees. 

The absence of Lord Lyttelton added repose to 
Mary's enjoyment of the captivating scene. To give 
ease to their movements, it had been agreed among 
the party not to meet until after the concert. At 
eleven o'clock they would assemble for supper in 
the circle where now stood Roubillac's portentous 
marble statue of the late Mr. Handel as Orpheus. 
To the surprise of both Mary and Tom they 
found themselves, soon after entering the gardens, 
separated from the rest of the party. The warmth 
of the night had attracted an unusually large number 
of visitors, and in seeking to avoid the crowd they 
had wandered far from the orchestra into the cool 
darkness of the Lovers' Walk, where the music fell 
upon their ears in fitful blares that died almost 
instantaneously into silence. Fugitive figures peeped 
here and there among the trees, and the faint rustle 
of skirts on the paths added a note of intimacy to 
the enchantment of solitude. Tom knew his Vauxhall 
well, and smiled to himself at the irony of fate which 
had made him the companion of his own wife on this 
occasion in so sequestered a region of the gardens. 
The novelty of the situation tickled him, and he was 
disposed to try the effect of making amorous advances. 
What better opportunity would he find than this for 
a reconciliation ? But at the first sign of his intention 
Mary broke from him. 

" Let us return to the music," said she, " Or, if 
you are bent on staying, perhaps Miss Wilmot will 
lend you her company. She cannot be far away. Let 
me seek her and send her to you." 



126 PERDITA 

Tom started, but was too surprised to venture on 
denial. " How came you to know ? " said he. 

She ignored the question. Other discoveries had 
come upon her since her visit to Soho, The parlour 
of the house in Hatton Garden was frequently visited 
by Mr. King, to whom Mary had been obliged to 
address herself for money before her visit to Wales. 
Tom and he were often closeted together for hours, 
and other bearded gentlemen came and went on secret 
business which she suspected with justice must concern 
her husband's growing embarrassments. Once, when 
Tom chanced to be out, she had questioned one of these 
mysterious visitors closely, and had found difficulty 
in concealing her despair when he stumbled into an 
admission that Mr, Robinson, before his marriage, had 
contracted a heavy debt in which he was still involved. 
As he spoke he had scanned Mary's clothes with 
critical impertinence, as if he were secretly calculating 
their value. " Meester Ropinson was too font of a 
cerdun laydee before his merritch," he said, shaking 
his head lugubriously. " He still spents money on 
her, and she is expenzif, Ach ! de follies of Cupit ! " 
These revelations had sealed Mary's lips until now. 
She had never loved her husband, and where there 
I was no passion there could be no jealousy. The 
infamy of his conduct mortified her, but she would 
have preferred not to tax him with it, had circumstances 
allowed. Since her visit to Miss Wilmot they had 
spoken little together, and never in earnest. Now, 
when she had thought to enjoy a (o.'iN^ hours of relaxa- 
tion from the strain put upon her by her knowledge, 
the necessity of acquainting him with the state of her 
information had been rudely thrust upon her. It 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 127 

was a mechanical necessity, and she answered to its 
demands with mechanical nicety. 

" You need not trouble to hide anything from me," 
said she quietly as she walked with determined foot- 
steps towards the crowd and the music. " Sooner or 
later I must know all, and already I know enough. 
Your extravagance must land us in ruin — very shortly, 
unless your uncle will help. If you have no respect 
for your marriage vows, common prudence " 

'* Oh, the marriage vows ! " sighed Tom. " Who 
of our acquaintance respects them ? They have been 
weighed and found wanting. When you talk of debts, 
I say that is none of your business. You could not 
understand were I to explain. When you talk of 

marriage vows " He paused, and then continuing 

in a sudc "'^ passionate outburst, " Why should I care 
for them ^id my father trouble about marriage 
when I was about to come into the world ? This 
gay, delightful world," he went on, waving his hand "^ 
at the crowd in the gardens, as if for him the whole 
world lay within their confines. " You say you know 
enough already, but until now I spared you the 
knowledge of what others saw not fit to spare me. 
They were more honest, as you would call it. Con- 
found such honesty ! And yet, were he more generous 
with his purse, I could forgive my father. Morals are 
well enough in the pulpit. But they sound faintly 
in the ears when the blood sings." 

His outburst awakened a momentary pity in Mary 
as they passed into the seclusion of a pavilion, in 
order that they might pursue their conversation with- 
out the hazard of interruption. 

" One of the first things I learned in my profession," 



128 PERDITA 

said Tom, '* was that in English law you cannot 
legitimise a child born out of wedlock. They under- 
stand these things better in France. Do you hate me 
all the more for what I have told you?" 

Mary shook her head. Her dislike of Mr. Harris 
had deepened at his communication, but in becoming 
aware of this fact she felt conscious of taking sides 
with her husband against his father. She had been 
cozened into her marriage, but she did not hold 
herself guiltless for her own want of resistance. 

" Our marriage was a mistake," said she sadly, 
" and the burden of that mistake must rest more 
heavily upon me. There is no escape, no escape. 
Let us go and join the others. I have not the heart 
to speak more on this subject. Listen ! The music 
draws to a close." 

For a minute they sat at the open window of the 
pavilion while the applause of the multitude mingling 
with a babble of conversation greeted the triumphant 
finale of the orchestra. Then in silence they picked 
their way to the place of meeting, where Mr. 
Fitzgerald already stood awaiting their arrival, a con- 
spicuous figure even in that gay assemblage, the 
button and loop of his hat, his sword-knot and buckles 
all brilliant with diamonds that twinkled in the light 
of the neighbouring lanterns, his coat and vest as 
rich as the brocade and velvet of the finest French 
looms could make them, and two enamelled watch- 
chains with a profusion of seals dangling from either 
fob. 

The other three members of the party were already in 
the box, to which Mr. Fitzgerald conducted Tom and 
Mary. A more enchanting scene it would be impossible 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 129 

to imagine than this circle of brightly illumined boxes, 
each with its supper table and convivial little company 
of stylish people. The noise and the turbulence of 
the evening were over, the majority of people having 
left the gardens or wandered far from their most 
expensive quarter. From the centre of the leafy circle 
glimmered the great statue of Handel at a zone of 
bright faces flushed with the wine of Burgundy and 
Oporto. The intimacy of each box was increased 
rather than diminished by the spectacle of the neigh- 
bouring parties seen through a disorderly framework 
of foliage which swayed and rustled in the breeze. 
Three sides of the table only were used for the 
guests, so that they might all enjoy the animation 
of the scene. 

" This is better than a theatre," cried Fitzgerald 
gaily as he took his seat between Mary and her 
good friend Lady Yea. On Mary's other side sat 
Mr. William Brereton the actor, and at the extreme 
edge of the box sat Mrs. Parry on the one side 
and Tom on the other. The lobsters were excellent. 
So was the red port, and the spirits of the company 
rose under the genial influence of their warm-hearted 
host. Soon they were listening to his sparkling 
anecdotes on the Court of Versailles and laughing 
at his droll picture of the French King, whom he 
mimicked with considerable skill, pronouncing his French 
with easy perfection. When they asked him about ^ 
the Queen, he placed his hand on his heart and broke 
into rapturous description. He called the Comte 
d'Artois a much overrated man, but omitted to tell 
them how he had come by his opinion. The fact 
was, that he had owed the nobleman some three 

9 



I30 PERDITA 

thousand livres which he had lost to him at play. 
The Comte did not press him for payment, but 
Fitzgerald seeing him some weeks later at the card- 
table, had openly offered to bet another thousand 
with his opponent against the chances of d'Artois, 
This was too much for the Frenchman, and there had 
been a scuffle in which the Irishman was thrown 
downstairs. Some said this was the origin of his 
lameness, for since his return from France he limped 
slightly ; but on Mrs. Parry enquiring if he had hurt 
his foot : 

'*A mere scratch in the heel, Madam, in a duel 
with a beggarly Frenchman who insulted the Queen," 
cried he. Then he called for more wine in which 
to drink the health of the loveliest sovereign in the 
world. 

The conversation passed from the Court to the 
theatre, and the talents of Sophie Arnould, and then 
Mr. Brereton diverted the company with a spirited 
account of his own stage experiences. Mary listened 
eagerly to his stories, and her mind was stirred by 
the memory of her old ambitions. A few weeks 
after her marriage she had met Mr. Garrick in the 
street, and he had offered her his formal congratula- 
tions. But she fancied she detected a slight irritation 
in his manner, and she was right ; for Garrick sus- 
pected the influence that had been brought to bear 
upon her in order to dissuade her from the stage, and 
he had had too much worry in reconciling his own 
family to his profession to have much sympathy with 
others who shared the same prejudice. 

The interest of the company in Mr. Brereton's 
stories grew particularly keen when he talked of 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 131 

Mrs. Abington. She was the liveliest, the wittiest, 
the most wicked creature imaginable. She could play 
the fine lady and talk the language of a bargeman 
almost in one breath, as it were ; and it was delightful 
to hear Brereton describe her running off the stage 
as the duchess in a comedy of high life, and cursing 
her maid for having ill-fastened the loop of her gown 
in the lurid vocabulary of St. Giles's. The ladies were 
unanimous in their admiration of her taste in dress. 
She had, indeed, invented a style which had become 
the rage, and the demurest young misses in the 
kingdom were all asking their milliners for the 
Abington cap, and begging them to cut their costumes 
in the negligent flowing pattern which became the 
actress so well. 

" If they knew the lady," said Brereton, " I wonder 
if they would be so eager to copy her style. She 
always looks as if she had tumbled into her clothes 
But her falls, I admit, are flights of genius." 

The gentlemen were convulsed with laughter at the 
witticism. Mrs. Parry now rose to take leave of the 
company, and her example was followed by Lady Yea. 
Mr. Brereton begged permission to accompany them 
to their carriages, and Tom and Mary were left alone 
in the box with Mr. Fitzgerald. The hour was late 
and the night sultry. The starless sky hung, almost 
with the oppression of a low ceiling, over the gardens. 
Now and then, as some party broke up, the lights in 
a box disappeared, leaving black gaps in the circle of 
bright faces. Tom was heavy with wine. Mary was 
thinking of Mrs. Abington and grieving over her 
own baffled aspirations. Fitzgerald was humming a 
French melody and gazing vacantly out of the box 



132 PERDITA 

Suddenly a noise was heard from the neighbourhood 
of a pavihon out of which two gentlemen emerged in 
furious altercation. In a moment they were surrounded 
by a crowd. Fitzgerald ran swiftly out of the box 
followed by Tom, who obeyed a blind instinct to 
accompany him without having observed the motive 
of his departure. Mary rose also, but before she could 
attract the attention of either Tom or his host, they 
were lost in the crowd. Fearing to miss them alto- 
gether if she ventured in search of them, she resumed 
her place in the box. In a few minutes Fitzgerald 
returned. 

'^ Robinson is gone to seek you at the entrance to 
the gardens," said he, "^ but I felt certain you had 
not quitted the box. Let me conduct you at once to 
the door, for your husband will be uneasy." 

Mary took his arm and they ran hastily to the 
entrance door on the Vauxhall Road. But Tom was 
nowhere to be seen. 

" Don't be alarmed," cried Fitzgerald, " he was 
here five minutes ago," and they passed through the 
door into the road. Mary's eyes pierced the darkness 
to where at some distance from the entrance stood her 
own carriage, which she recognised by the shape of the 
lanterns. But before she could reach it, Fitzgerald 
stopped abruptly : a servant opened the door to a 
chaise and four ; by the light from the lamps on the 
footpath Mary plainly perceived a pistol in the lining, 
and drew back. In a moment she felt Fitzgerald's 
arm round her waist as he attempted with some violence 
to lift her up the step of the chaise. Even in the 
distress of the moment she saw the impassive servant 
watching the scuffle at a short distance from the chaise. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 133 

** Vile devil ! " cried Mary, as by a desperate efFort 
she succeeded in twisting herself from his grasp. His 
hand trembled. 

" Robinson can but fight me," said he, as he tried 
once more to compel her into the chaise. But she 
slipped from under his arm and ran nimbly to the 
entrance door, followed by her persecutor. 

"Ah, here he comes at last," cried Fitzgerald blandly, 
as the figure of Tom greeted him in the doorway. His 
voice was free from all traces of perturbation. " We 
have been looking everywhere for you," he continued, 
" and I fear Mrs. Robinson was beginning to be 
seriously alarmed." He cheerfully accepted Tom's 
offer of a ride, for he lodged at no great distance 
from Hatton Garden, and as he entered the carriage, 
" We nearly made a strange mistake and. took posses- 
sion of another man's equipage," said he, and then 
explained how it had been his intention to leave Mrs. 
Robinson in her carriage and start once more in search 
of Tom. 

The young gentleman was too sleepy to pay much 
heed to what he said ; moreover, the difficulty of 
hearing was increased by the rattle of the wheels on 
the road and the noise of the storm which had now 
broken loose. 

" Mercy on us, what a pale face! " cried a gentleman 
who in crossing the street passed the window of the 
Robinsons' carriage as a flash of lightning cast its 
lurid glare on Mary's tight lips and terror-stricken 
face. She never uttered a syllable on their way to 
Hatton Garden. 



XIII 

Tom's affairs had now reached a stage at which it 
was no longer possible to avert a catastrophe. At the 
suit of an annuitant an execution was levied upon his 
effects, and the coarse laughter of the valuers soon 
resounded in the elegant apartments in Hatton Garden. 
The furniture, the china, even the pictures on the walls 
were swept into the sacrifice. Tom was at his wits' 
end to know what to do. He began to see the folly 
of having trusted to Lord Lyttelton, for whenever 
he called at Hill Street his lordship was either out of 
town or so deeply engaged in parliamentary business 
that he could see no one. A series of letters asking 
for advice and help fared no better. The first produced 
an evasive reply ; the others remained unanswered. 
It was a confounded nuisance to be put in such a 
hole at the opening of a season which promised a rich 
harvest of amusement. Moreover, the sale of his 
effects in Hatton Garden by no means exhausted his 
liabilities. The loan of a friend's house at Finchley 
afforded a temporary asylum, and he was content that 
Mrs. Darby should come from Bristol to stay with 
her daughter at a time when she needed help and 
consolation in the approaching crisis in her life. Of 
the whole retinue of servants in Hatton Garden, one 
alone chose to throw in his lot with the misfortunes 
of his employers. This was the negro. The others 

134 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 135 

left in a body, taking marked delight in adding to 
the confusion which reigned in the house, and rousing 
Tom to a pitch of fury by the unrestrained insolence 
of their observations. 

To Mary the removal to Finchley appeared no mis- 
fortune. The bolt had fallen, but life still went on, \ 
and the solitude of Finchley was more in accordance 
with her frame of mind than the turbulence of the 
metropolis. She was glad that business transactions 
kept her husband much in London, for thus she was 
able to enjoy her mother's company without the 
disturbing necessity of offering explanations on which 
she had no wish to dwell. Whatever faults Mrs. 
Darby possessed she was deeply attached to her 
daughter. She had no need to enquire with par- 
ticularity into the circumstances of Mary's mis- 
fortunes, nor to add to them by extorting from her 
the humiliating admission that Tom was a failure. 
Moreover her daughter's condition compelled her to 
look into the future without indulging in a retrospect 
as futile as it was painful. Together the mother and 
daughter prepared the infant's wardrobe, and Mary 
took pleasure in cutting the fine muslin of many 
dresses into frocks and robes in which a maternal 
solicitude was exhibited in pleasing alliance with a 
milliner's fancy. 

But the serenity of this new life was rudely inter- 
rupted, for Tom, realising that his creditors were 
inexorable, could no longer afford to endanger his 
personal liberty by remaining in the neighbourhood 
of London. Nothing remained but to make to his 
father an unreserved confession of his obligations, 
and trust that the exigencies of Mary's situation would, 



136 PERDITA 

at least, obtain for her the attention and consideration 
upon which common humanity insisted. At Tregunter 
Tom would be outside the zone of his creditors, and 
for a time at least the Robinsons could rest from the 
incessant importunities to which they were exposed so 
long as, they were accessible. 

Mr. Harris did not reply to his son's letter, in which, 
with a mixture of cunning and contrition, Tom an- 
nounced his intention of coming once more to Wales. 
The cost of providing for his son and daughter-in-law 
for a limited period would not be heavy, and the 
humiliation of the young people confronted daily with 
their benefactor would be a salutary experience. Mrs. 
Molly's vindictive nature rejoiced in the prospect of 
the visit. Tom's sister was less elated. She disliked 
Mary, but felt some commiseration for Mary's present 
distress, priding herself on a power to distinguish 
between the vanity and weakness of her sister-in-law 
and the unpardonable follies of her brother. 

Mary was filled with dismay when Tom informed 
her of his intentions. To be compelled into the 
society of people so unsympathetic to her as her 
relatives in Wales, at a time when, of all others, she 
could least dispense with her mother's company, was 
almost unbearable. But the alternative of allowing 
Tom to go alone was not practicable ; at Finchley 
they were certain to be subjected to annoyance from the 
creditors, and by the time the child was expected 
they would not have money enough for their daily 
wants. In spite of the sorrows which her brief married 
life had brought to her, she did not yet despair of a 
more fortunate issue, for when there is most ground 
for despair it takes the bitterness of a longer experience 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 137 

than Mary's to extinguish all hope. If Mr. Harris 
would help his son to disentangle himself from his 
present embarrassments, it would not be impossible 
to live on a small and regular income. Even before 
her marriage she had been made familiar with the 
vicissitudes of luxury and penury, and in her judgment 
of Tom it was only natural that she should mix some 
leniency borrowed from her incurable affection for her 
father in spite of his misdeeds. 

Tom himself was moved by the parting between his 
wife and her mother. Their tears were all the more 
eloquent for the few words spoken. Neither of them 
slept much the night before, for Mary was thinking 
of the long, tiresome journey and the cold welcome 
at the end of it ; and Mrs. Darby was praying for her 
child's happy deliverance from the sorrows and respon- 
sibilities which had fallen upon her. If only they 
might remain together ! But the parting had to come, 
was even there before either of them could anticipate 
the full pain of it in reflection. The harness of the 
horses jingled ; the boxes were safely stowed (these 
were fewer than on the occasion of their first visit to 
Tregunter) ; the postboy sounded his horn ; the last 
kiss was given, and Mary, with her eyes dim with 
tears, had sprung into the coach. Tom stood reluctant, 
like a schoolboy at the prospect of a new term with 
a score of old punishments still unfulfilled, until the 
wheels began to move and the impatient passengers 
to shout. Then he jumped in by the side of Mary, 
the door banged, and in a few minutes the coach had 
disappeared from Mrs. Darby's sight. 

The arrival at Tregunter exceeded Mary's worst 



138 PERDITA 

expectations. Mrs. Molly said nothing, but looked 
volumes ; Miss Betsy's face wore an air of impene- 
trable reserve. Mr. Harris sent Mary crying to her 
room with his brutal greeting. 

" Well," said he, " so you have escaped from a 
prison, and now you are come here to do penance 
for your follies ! How long do you think that 1 will 
support you.? What business have beggars to marry ^ " 

At Tom's intercession he laughed. It was useless 
to represent to him that Mary was in no way respon- 
sible for their calamity, that her own debts did not 
exceed fifty pounds. The old man was so cunning 
that he did not give Tom credit for ingenuousness, 
even when he spoke the truth. Miss Betsy took a 
fairer view of the matter, but she took care not to 
express her opinion in the presence of Tom and his 
wife. The manor house was not yet complete, and 
Mary wandered from one cheerless room to another, 
as much to avoid the company of her persecutors as 
to seek some occupation with which to pass the weari- 
some hours. Accustomed to the society of books she 
looked but dared not ask for the library, but it soon 
became apparent that this pompous building did not 
f include such a convenience. As if to embitter her 
solitude by the pains of remembrance, the chimney- 
pieces she had chosen at Bristol were fixed in their 
places, and the rough sketches of the artist whom she 
had sent at the request of Mr. Harris to Tregunter, 
were on the walls. " The Squire " came upon his 
daughter-in-law one day while he was making a tour 
of inspection round the house ; she was trying to 
amuse herself by playing on an old spinnet in one of 
the parlours. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 139 

" This is no occupation for you, my girl," said he 
roughly. " You ought to be thinking of getting your 
bread. What right, I should like to know, have 
women of no fortune to follow the pursuits of fine 
ladies ? Tom had better married a good tradesman's 
daughter than the child of a ruined merchant, who is 
not capable of earning her living." 

" I meant no harm," said Mary as she rose from the 
instrument. 

" No harm ! no harm ! They all say the same," 
repHed Mr. Harris peevishly as he hurried from her 
presence. In the evening a large party assembled for 
dinner. Mary did not dare to ask for leave to remain 
in her room. She knew that to do so would be to 
provoke sarcastic observations on her nicety. English 
manners have suffered a great change since those days ; 
but conventional reticence, while it has its uses in 
checking an overflow of coarseness, must not be m.is- 
taken all for refinement. No secret was made of 
Mary's condition among the company on that evening, 
and it was regarded as a polite attention when a 
gentleman expressed his satisfaction that Mrs. Robinson 
was come to give Tregunter a little stranger. 

" Your house," added he as he turned to his 
host, " will be finished just in time for a nursery." 

" No, no," replied Mr. Harris, laughing immodestly, 
*' they came here because prison doors were open to 
receive them." 

An awkward silence fell upon those who had the 
misfortune to hear the remark. Tom flushed with 
indignation. He felt as if he would like to expose 
his father before the whole company, and his hands 
were clasped and unclasped in nervous fury under the 



I40 PERDITA 

table. To cover Mary's confusion the gentleman who 
had provoked this savage outburst now engaged her 
in conversation upon the neighbouring scenery, as if 
nothing had occurred to disturb their natural interchange 
of opinions. 

When the guests had gone, Tom remonstrated with 
his father on his conduct, and begged him once more 
to concentrate the full force of his censure upon the 
guilty party and leave Mary unmolested. But Mr. 
Harris evaded the point of the rebuke by repeating 
with emphasis that he was not going to have Tregunter 
turned into a nursery, and that Mrs. Robinson could 
go elsewhere for her confinement. It was in vain 
that Miss Betsy now volunteered to undertake the 
necessary arrangements for preparing a suitable apart- 
ment in the house. Mr. Harris flatly refused to 
sanction the proposal, and it was clear that in doing 
so he had the full support of Mrs. Molly. Happily 
Mary was not present at the numerous consultations 
which took place upon the subject ; she was within 
a fortnight of her time, and it was imperative that 
provision should be made for her without further 
delay. 

Miss Betsy now bethought herself of a plan for 
the solution of the difficulty. She was not of an 
amiable disposition by nature, but the inhumanity of 
the others aroused in her a valuable spirit of opposition. 
Her religion may have been narrow, but it was sincere. 
The theology of the Huntingdonians might be called 
weak, but it should never be said that they were 
heartless in the presence of distress. Above all theirs 
was a practical religion, whose votaries did not throw 
away opportunities for vindicating its claims to 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 141 

existence. A portion of Trevecca House, the seminary 
founded by Lady Huntingdon with the aid of Mr. 
Harris's brother, had been converted into a flannel 
manufactory. The place was but a mile and a half 
distant from Tregunter; its inmates were all of the new 
sect. Miss Betsy now proposed to exercise her in- 
fluence as a member of the same school of religion to 
obtain apartments for Mrs. Robinson in this wing 
of the building. Mary received the suggestion with 
undisguised delight. Miss Betsy checked her sister- 
in-law's expression of gratitude. She wanted to be 
useful ; she disliked sentimental effusions. Within a 
few days she had completed negociations with Trevecca 
House, and Mary, feeling like a prisoner released, 
departed from Tregunter. With the consent of Mr. 
Harris, Miss Betsy engaged a nurse for the appointed 
date. Mrs. Jones, the widow of a tradesman in Brecon, 
was selected, a sensible woman who possessed many 
qualities not usually associated with persons engaged 
in trade. Mr. Harris, on receiving a description of 
her, thought that she would be an excellent companion 
for his " butterfly " Mary, who might learn useful 
lessons from a working woman. But Mrs. Jones fell 
in love with her charge at the first interview, and, 
obeying the instincts of a kind heart and a refined 
nature, endeared herself to Mary by entirely difi^erent 
methods from those with which she was credited by 
Mr. Harris. 

The situation of Mary's new dwelling was suited 
for the indulgence of that tender melancholy which 
even as a child she had known how to enjoy. Here, 
it is true, was no ancient Gothic pile, but the lonely 
position of the house at the foot of a mountain known 



142 PERDITA 

from its shape as the Sugar Loaf, and the untamed 
luxuriance of the valley into which it seemed to have 
been dropped as from above, without the link of a 
village road to connect it with civilisation, appealed 
with magical force to Mary's peculiar sense of romance. 
The sudden relief from the strain of uncongenial 
company, the solemn beauty of autumnal tints, for it 
was now October, the respectful solicitude of those 
about her, helped to produce in her a sensation of 
almost preternatural calm. As from her little parlour 
window she watched the moonbeams fall, mildly 
effulgent amid the ancient yew-trees that shaded the 
little garden, she imagined herself a child again, new 
to the mysterious beauties of nature. The intervening 
period of her marriage receded from her memory, 
or, when it occurred to her, was clothed in a semblance 
of unreality. How fugitive all human emotion 
appeared in comparison with the permanent beauties 
of the surrounding universe ! By the light of such 
contemplation, what was Vauxhall but the ludicrous 
parody of Nature's poem ? Had her solitude lasted 
long enough she would have sighed, no doubt, for the 
diversions of the parody ; as it was, she drew deep 
breaths as she wandered on the mountain-side and 
peered up at the indigo-blue vapours round its 
summit, while sometimes she would go out as soon 
as the sun rose and follow some dew-bespangled 
track in the wood, letting the wet branches of 
the briars caress her face as she went, and when 
her course became obstructed, pushing them from 
her with the gentleness of one loath to part with 
a friend. 

Tom was heartily glad to be away from Tregunter, 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 143 

for his father showed no disposition to help him and 
lost no opportunity for lecturing him. Mary was 
content that he should spend the day with companions, 
so long as he was at Trevecca in time to sup with 
her. The cruelty of Mr. Harris, and the circumstances 
under which they were now thrown more closely 
together, acted favourably in inducing her to think 
that Tom was not irredeemable, and they both felt 
grateful to Miss Betsy for her kind offices. The 
honest people in the flannel manufactory were im- 
mensely excited when it was announced to them that 
Mrs. Robinson had given birth to a daughter, and 
nothing would satisfy them until Mrs. Jones had 
submitted to their enthusiastic inspection the little 
creature wrapped in a blanket of their own making. 
She was hailed, as Mrs. Jones took care to inform 
her mother, as '' the young Squire's baby, the little 
heiress to Tregunter." 

Mary smiled at the nurse's rapturous account of 
this strange introduction. Tregunter seem.ed to her 
a very small spot indeed in the whole world to which 
her child was heiress in the very fact of its inexplicable 
existence. Mr. Harris himself now entered, and after 
a brief enquiry as to her health, seated himself by 
the bedside and began an impatient recital of family 
worries without considering the indelicacy of talking 
so freely in the presence of Mrs. Jones. 

" Well ! " said he, as a movement of the bedclothes 
recalled him from the selfish indulgence of his own 
woes, " and what do you mean to do with your 
child ? " 

Mary made no reply. The question appeared 
utterly meaningless to her. He might as sensibly 



144 PERDITA 

have asked her what she was going to do with a 
starlight night when she was abroad in the beauty 
of it. 

" I will tell you what to do with the child," 
continued he ; " tie it to your back and work 
for it. Prison doors are open, you know. Tom 
will die in a gaol ; and then what is to become 
of you ? " 

This time he did not stay to become aware that his 
question was left again unanswered, but disappeared 
from the room as unceremoniously as he had entered it. 
Before Mary had had leisure to dwell on his amazing 
insensibility. Miss Betsy stood by the bedside. Mary 
hoped that now at least she would be allowed to 
express her gratitude for what had been done on her 
behalf, and she waited for a word from her visitor 
which should encourage her to proceed. But Miss 
Betsy gazed from the child to the mother and from 
the mother to the child without uttering a syllable. 
Then, in a voice from which it might fairly be assumed 
that she was deeply in love with her own compassion, 
" Poor little wretch ! " she murmured to herself. 
" Poor thing ! It would be a mercy if it pleased God 
to take it ! " 

Mary wondered for how long she was to be sub- 
jected to the cruelty of her husband's relations ; but 
although they succeeded in wounding her, she felt 
an indescribable superiority to their insults in virtue 
of the new dignity conferred upon her by motherhood ; 
and the contrast to their conduct afforded in the 
untiring devotion of Mrs. Jones and the kindly 
sentiments of the workpeople in the manufactory, 
placed them in a light so strange as to be happily 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 



H5 



almost unintelligible. Nevertheless when Tom informed 
her that he had received letters warning him that his 
place of concealment was known to his creditors, she 
rejoiced in the opportunity offered for a speedy 
departure. The child, who had been christened Maria 
Elizabeth, was only three weeks old when it was 
decided to visit Mrs, Darby's mother in Monmouth. 
The good Mrs. Jones was distressed at the notion 
of Mary's travelling so soon ; but to delay departure 
was inexpedient, and by taking elaborate precautions 
to secure the comfort of her patient and expressing 
her readiness to accompany the Robinsons as far as 
Abergavenny, Mrs. Jones showed that she was eager 
to make the best of difficult circumstances. It is 
hardly necessary to add that Tom's family offered no 
opposition to the project ; and Mrs. Molly had entirely 
ignored the existence of the Robinsons on their removal 
to Trevecca. 

So a postchaise was engaged, and once more the 
fugitives entered upon a long journey. The people 
in the manufactory turned out in a body to bid them 
farewell, and in spite of its paleness Mary's face wore 
a look of pride and pleasure as she smiled at the little 
Maria who lay placidly on a pillow on Mrs. Jones's lap. 
They reached Abergavenny the same evening and de- 
cided to rest there the night. Mary felt genuinely 
sorry to take leave of Mrs. Jones, who was obliged to 
return to her daughter at Brecon. Both women cried at 
the parting, and when Mary stood alone by the side 
of her child she was overwhelmed with indescribable 
anxieties for its welfare. But Nature, who takes small 
account of angry creditors and inhuman fathers, had left 
her in sound health after her ordeal. She could rejoice 

lO 



146 PERDITA 

in the fact that no number of executions on her husband 
could rob her child of a mother's nourishment, and in 
nursing the little Maria she found a consolation that 
grew with every day and soon extinguished all the 
timidity of inexperience. 



XIV 

Nothing could have contributed so quickly to Mary's 
complete recovery as her grandmother's warm welcome. 
The old lady, who was close on seventy years of age, 
lived in a house of which the garden adjoined the 
ancient ruins of Monmouth Castle. It is singular that ^ 
on her mother's side conjugal happiness had been 
unknown in Mary's family for three generations. 
In her youth " Grandmamma Elizabeth " had been 
distinguished for her beauty, her love of the poor, 
and a knowledge of botany which she turned to 
valuable account in ministering to the wants of sick 
peasants. Personal grief in her marriage had not 
embittered her mild and sweetly forgiving nature, and 
her simple piety impressed Mary no less than the 
undisguised display of her affection consoled her 
for the pain of her recent experience at Tregunter. 
The little Maria was tenderly embraced, and Mary 
felt invigorated each time she listened to enquiry after 
*' the dear great-grandchild." Many were the tales of 
past days told by Grandmamma Elizabeth as she sat in 
her dress of plain brown silk at the family fireside. She 
could remember Queen Anne, and could look quite 
mischievous when she spoke with admiration of the 
romantic Young Pretender and the rebellion of '45, 
when a price of thirty thousand pounds had been put on 
that hot young head. Thirty years had passed since 

147 



148 PERDITA 

then, and Charles Edward was now a middle-aged 
gentleman living in Italy on the pension granted to 
him by the French Government on his recent marriage 
with Louisa Princess of Stolberg. But it was said that 
the old habit of drink was once more gaining ascendency 
over him, and as she thought of that ill-starred 
career. Grandmamma Elizabeth sighed. 

Mary explored every corner of the ruined castle, and 
spent many an agreeable hour wandering on the banks 
of the Wye. The days passed with an easy serenity. 
On Sundays she accompanied her grandmother to church. 
How had she come to neglect the habit in London ? 
She blamed herself all the more because her husband 
had shown himself insensible to the appeal of religion, 
and in succumbing to his influence she had silently 
condoned the ofi^ence. Tom openly declared himself 
not good enough to go to church, but she wondered 
why it had neyer occurred to her to tell him that he 
could not be bad enough to justify him in staying away. 
He was restless during their sojourn in Monmouth, and 
was always expecting to receive another execution. The 
company bored him, and when he received an invitation 
to accompany his wife to a ball at a neighbour's he 
persuaded Mary to accept, and even flattered her vanity 
when she hesitated, by asking her if she had already 
forgotten, in the duties of motherhood, how to dance. 
Grandmamma Elizabeth took sides with him on this 
occasion, urging, to Tom's satisfaction, the duty of 
maintaining a proper gaiety of spirits while she was yet 
young. That settled the matter. " Take care of her, 
Mr. Robinson," said the old lady, smiling with gracious 
approval at her granddaughter as Mary appeared in a 
dress of pale lilac lustring which she had put on for 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 149 

the occasion and a wreath of white flowers on her head, 
" for she will be the beauty of the evening." 

" None will suspect the existence of the child when 
they see the mother," replied Tom, laughing. But 
Mary hastened to inform him that the child was coming 
to the ball ; for she was to be brought in the course 
of the evening to an ante-chamber to take her regular 
nourishment. 

The dance was a great success, and Grandmamma 
Elizabeth's prediction was amply fulfilled. Every one 
admired the graceful figure of the young Mrs. 
Robinson, and the easy accomplishment of her steps 
provoked many compliments. From the time when the 
ballet master at Oxford House had expressed his delight 
at her talents, and even earlier (for as a child she had 
improvised dances before she had been taught any 
regular steps), Mary had been familiar with the fine art 
of dancing — not the mechanical placing of the legs in 
set patterns, but such inspired movement of the whole 
body to the rhythm of sweet music as would have won 
praise from Monsieur Noverre himself, whom Garrick 
called " the Shakespeare of the Ballet." 

This was Mary's first appearance in an assembly since 
her confinement, and for a few minutes she was quite 
bewildered by the lights, the music, and the babble 
of voices. She felt no shyness but an indefinable sense of 
separation from the people who were in the room. They 
were like familiar figures encountered in a dream, figures 
in whose substantiality the dreamer, beset with an over- 
acute sense of his own reality, is reluctant to believe. But 
as the habit of the dance reasserted its sway over Mary, 
the line of division between herself and the company 
slowly melted, surrendering her completely to the illusion 



I50 PERDITA 

of perfect mental balance and an almost supernatural 
harmony with her surroundings. As she moved with 
sedateness and artificial coquetry through the changing 
figures, it was in her face no less than in her feet 
that the genius of the dance could be read. No 
painter, even in that great era of English portraiture, was 
ever dancer enough to have divined that in the poetry 
of her movement, above all to the accompaniment of 
music, the seductive distinction of her presence rose to 
its height ; and so the tale of her beauty is still only 
half told in the canvases of Gainsborough, Reynolds, and 
Romney. 

Men and women paused in their own figures to look 
at her, but she was not dancing to win their admiration. 
The brightness of her eyes deepened with the exhilara- 
tion of movement, her cheeks glowed, her lips, which 
were closed in repose, were now parted as her breath 
came quickly with the pace of the allemande. Some 
blossoms fell from the wreath about her head. As the 
twinkling of her feet ceased on the last note of the music, 
an involuntary chorus of applause broke from those 
who had been watching her. She looked round as if 
in search of the cause for this enthusiasm, and then, 
perceiving that no other than herself had provoked it, 
fled, amid the protests of the bystanders, from the room. 
On her way out she was met by an attendant, who in- 
formed her that the little Maria was already waiting in the 
ante-chamber. After satisfying its hunger and commit- 
ting it tenderly to the charge of the waiting-woman, who 
wrapped it in many shawls and set out to carry it home 
again, Mary re-entered the ballroom. She bore her 
honours lightly, being by now inured to adulation. 
In the country dances, which occupied the rest of the 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 151 

evening, she showed herself no less at home than in 
the measured gravity of the minuet and the pointed 
brilliance of the allemande. Tom was besieged with 
compliments on his wife's talents. He did not dance 
much himself, but he drank himself into a condition 
of cheerful satisfaction with the world ; and many of 
the fine things said to him flattered his pride. The 
crash in his own affairs he knew must come before 
long. In the meanwhile it was pleasant to lay aside all 
thoughts of the morrow and figure as the enviable 
husband of so distinguished a wife. Cheered by the 
wine in him, he began almost to believe that he was 
indeed enviable ; and inasmuch as what was enviable 
must be good, that he was indeed good. As Mary 
and he took their leave at a later hour his attitude 
was entirely that of the devoted young husband. 

On reaching home, however, the whole pleasure of the 
ball was obliterated at a stroke for Mary by the sight 
of her little Maria in convulsions, brought on, as she 
afterwards learned, by nourishment given immediately 
after the agitation of dancing. The whole night was 
spent in frenzied despair. A doctor was summoned at 
once, but his prescription failed to diminish the violence 
of the fits, which succeeded one another with alarming 
rapidity. As the winter morning's light crept into her 
chamber she still sat with the child in her arms. She 
had not stayed to take off her ball dress, and a few faded 
flowers still hung about her hair, when she received a 
hurried visit from a clergyman who was a friend of her 
grandmother's and had saved his own child under similar 
circumstances with a mixture of aniseed and spermaceti. 
He now asked leave to experiment with the same remedy 
on the little Maria, and as the doctor had given up all 



152 PERDITA 

hope of saving the child, there was good reason for 
welcoming even a more desperate remedy than this. 
On the draught being administered the child's spas- 
modic attacks became weaker and less frequent. In an 
hour they had ceased altogether and she had fallen 
asleep. Mary looked at the serenity of that little face 
in mute astonishment. For her, a lifetime lay between 
the gaiety of the ball and restored tranquillity after the 
terrible experience of that night, and as soon as she 
herself had recovered from the strain of helpless watch- 
ing, it seemed to her that she had never loved her child 
until it had nearly been taken from her. 

Through the whole distress of that night Tom had 
slept soundly in an adjoining room. He was right in 
supposing that he could not have been of much use to 
anybody had he attempted to stay up, and the next day 
he was fretful and anxious to leave Monmouth, They 
had been more than a month here, and he was afraid 
that his whereabouts would once more be discovered. 
Arrangements were accordingly concluded for a fresh 
departure, when an execution arrived for a considerable 
sum at the suit of his oldest friend. His indignation 
was boundless, and Mary herself could not understand 
what had prompted the hostile action. The creditor 
was indeed no other than the young man who had accom- 
panied them in the chaise to Maidenhead Bridge after 
their wedding ceremony. Perhaps he had been offended 
at a supposed want of confidence in not acquainting him 
with the marriage, and was now showing his revenge. 
But speculation was idle in the present crisis. Tom was 
no longer at liberty to travel. The sheriff of the county 
was a friend of Grandmamma Elizabeth, and offered 
to accompany the young people to London in the hope 




1 mezzotint engraving by \V. Dickinson, after a painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds, P.R.A. 
MARY ROBINSON. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 153 

that he might be of service in adjusting the matter. 
His suggestion was accepted with alacrity, and the 
three started on their tedious journey the same evening, 
Mary being so absorbed in the care of her child as to 
have little leisure for dwelling on the unpleasant cause 
of their departure. Grandmamma Elizabeth was sure 
that all would end well, and offered many words of 
encouragement to her young granddaughter in bidding 
her farewell. Mrs. Darby was in London, and would 
be too much rejoiced at the introduction to the little 
Maria to cavil over the circumstances of their sudden 
arrival in the metropolis. 

When at last their destination was reached, Mary left 

the others and drove at once in a hackney coach to 

York Buildings, Buckingham Street, where her mother 

was lodging, her heart beating with the. excitement of 

appearing thus suddenly before Mrs. Darby with all 

the momentous adventures crowded into the past few 

months to communicate. Maria lay fast asleep in her 

arms as she climbed the stairs of the Buildings. For a 

moment she hesitated as she stood at the door and 

looked again at the child to see if the rapidity of her 

movements had disturbed its slumber. But the little 

eyes were closed and the hands folded with comic 

complacency across her bosom. She opened the door. 

The apartment was empty. Was her mother abroad so 

early .'' She moved to a window, from which she could 

see the gleaming river. The slowly moving barges 

took her thoughts back to the day when Mr. Wayman 

had accompanied them to Greenwich and she had been 

introduced to Tom for the first time. What an age had 

passed since then ! She decided to wait until her mother 

returned, and was about to seat herself by the fireside 



154 PERDITA 

when a door communicating with another room opened. 
Mrs. Darby started. In a moment the mother and 
daughter were in each other's arms. Neither could speak. 
When at last Mrs. Darby withdrew her arms from Mary's 
neck, something held fast to a wisp of her hair, and as 
with bowed head she looked to disengage herself, she 
caught sight of a tiny fist. The little Maria was awake. 

In the meanwhile Tom and the Sheriff of Monmouth 
had proceeded to the house of the impatient creditor, 
who explained that the execution had been levied in 
the belief that Mr. Harris would come to the rescue. 
On learning that he had formed an erroneous con- 
ception of that gentleman's generosity he expressed 
his willingness to abandon the suit ; and the matter 
having been arranged, Tom engaged rooms for himself 
and Mary near Berners Street. 

Not many days had passed after their return to 
London when Mr. Fitzgerald acquainted Lord Lyttelton 
with the fact that he had seen Mrs. Robinson at 
Ranelagh. " This time," said the Irishman, '* she was 
without her husband." Lyttelton smiled, and made a 
note to visit the Rotunda on the following evening. 
But if Mary had been imprudent enough to go once 
to Ranelagh unattended by her husband with some 
ladies of her acquaintance, she was wise enough not 
to repeat the folly. Fitzgerald had been importunate. 
His carriage had followed her home the night of her 
meeting with him, and he had had the audacity to 
call unbidden in the morning at her lodgings, where 
he found her absorbed in her duties towards her child. 
His manner had been respectful, but she had been 
obliged to decline with significant firmness an invitation 
to dine the next day at Richmond. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 155 

Lyttelton was rewarded by the sight of her when 
he visited Ranelagh ; but he was embarrassed by the 
presence of Tom, and wondered how the fellow could 
contrive to keep out of prison for so long. He was 
struck by the ease of Mary's manner, and noted an 
increased skill in the way in which she parried his 
advances. He likened her earlier demeanour to that 
of a light craft wobbling in a squall. " Now the wind 
sits full," said he, " in the sails of her beauty. It 
would need a hurricane to tear her from her course." 



XV 

Mrs. Darby's affection for her daughter was no idle 
indulgence of a luxurious sentiment. She came almost 
daily to her lodging and helped her to dress and tend 
her child. She stayed in the house while Mary took 
an hour in the fresh air, and she experienced satisfaction 
in the exercise of domestic activities for which she 
now lamented that her clever daughter had received no 
training. Common misfortune linked the two women 
in a fast bond of companionship. Tom's difficulties 
were never discussed. Soon enough, Mrs. Darby 
suspected, they would break through the even surface 
of the day's domestic routine. Tom saw little of the 
ladies. Was it because he was too busy, or because 
their presence made him doubly sensible of his own 
shortcomings ? 

When Mary returned one morning from her outing, 
she noted a look of unusual anxiety on her mother's 
face. She had been busy, as she walked, with the 
poems which she was now about to publish in the 
hope of earning a little money, and her thoughts had 
wandered far from the practical worries of her 
situation in an attempt to improve defective lines before 
sending them finally to press. Mrs. Darby was seated 
as usual by the side of the oblong basket in which 
Maria lay when Mary opened the door. But she did 

156 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 157 

not look up and smile as was her wont. Her head 
remained bowed, as if in contemplation, over the cot. 

*' How now ^ " said Mary, humming the refrain of 
a lullaby as she advanced to her mother. Mrs. Darby 
looked up. 

" Something has happened ^ " cried Mary, glancing 
with a sudden fear at the cot. The sight of her 
child smiling and waving its hands reassured her. 

"Tom has been arrested," said Mrs. Darby help- 
lessly. " They have taken him to the house of the 
sherifFs officer." 

The ugly warning of Mr. Harris recurred to Mary's 
memory. She shuddered. This time there would 
be no escape. Suddenly the humiliation of the last few 
months of enforced flight from one place to another 
overwhelmed her. Silently again she put on the hat 
and cloak which she had taken off on entering the 
room. 

" Where are you going ? " said Mrs. Darby 
uneasily. 

" To him — to Tom," said Mary, 

Mrs. Darby did not seek to dissuade her. In a few 
hours she returned. She had seen her husband, and 
was more than ever convinced of the necessity of 
accompanying him to whatever destination the desperate 
condition of his affairs would consign him. Tom was 
utterly dejected, and had not been able to offer any 
suggestion of a remedy. The sight of his distress 
had awakened fresh pity in Mary for her undeserving 
husband. Permission had been granted her to stay 
with him while he was in the custody of the sheriffs 
officer, and she now asked Mrs. Darby to bring her 
child there as often as was necessary. Within a few 



158 PERDITA 

days detainers were lodged against Mr. Thomas 
Robinson to the amount of twelve hundred pounds. 
Liberty could alone be bought by finding this sum of 
money, but as he reviewed each name from among the 
list of his dissipated companions he was obliged to 
realise the futility of applying to any one among them. 
What then ? He knew enough about life in a prison 
to feel little alarm at the rigours which would be 

' imposed upon him. He was not penniless, and a 
prison was above all a place in which you could buy 
favours. Many excellent people went to prison for 
debt, and the small allowance made to him by his 
father, inadequate as it was for the conduct of a 
fashionable life, would stand him in good stead in his 
new life as a debtor whose daily expenditure was 
regulated by the law. He did not want Mary to 
accompany him, for he feared she might stand between 
him and such pleasures as he would be able to snatch. 
But he was too deceitful to confess the nature of such 
considerations, and allowed her to urge upon him 
as an argument for her accompanying him, that he 
would better be able to support her within the prison 
walls than elsewhere ; nor was he cruel enough to bid 
her go and starve. 

Three weeks passed before the arrangements had 
been completed for Tom's transference to prison. 
Had he been rich enough he needed not to have 
entered the building at all, but the fees for living 
" within the rules or liberties," as it was called, were 

^ more than he could afford. Smollett has left a vivid 
picture of the prison of this period, which in constitution 
resembled more a college than any modern institution 
for the housing of criminals. Nothing in its exterior 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 159 

betrayed the nature of a gaol except the entrance, 
where the turnkeys kept watch and ward. At the 
end of its single street (for it was like a neat little 
town enclosed by a high wall) was a separate building 
for the better sort of Crown prisoners, and here Tom 
found suitable apartments in an upper floor commanding 
a view of the racket-ground below. 

He had not been long in his new quarters before 
he struck up a friendship with Signor Albanesi, 
formerly an employee of the Royal Opera House, a 
talented scoundrel w^ho sang, played the buffoon, and 
spent hours in the apartments of the Robinsons telling 
stories of gallantry and intrigue. He was something 
of an artist too, and engraved neat plates which obtained 
the admiration of Mr. Sherwin, under whom he had 
worked. When he was not playing rackets, Tom was 
usually in the society of Albanesi. The Italian knew 
the prison from one end to the other, and had an 
unerring instinct for discovering the loosest characters 
who could contribute to his inexhaustible passion for 
intrigues. Most of the women doted on him, and 
as he enjoyed vigorous health and did not at any time 
of his life care for washing, the absence of a surgeon 
and of a single bath within the prison walls did not 
affect the irrepressible flow of his spirits. Tom and 
he would loll down the street at night in high feather 
as they listened to the cursing and the cries of the 
hawkers at the butchers' stands, the chandlers' shops 
and the other booths in which tradesmen of every kind 
exercised their professions. Every Monday night was 
spent in the Wine Club, every Thursday night in the 
Beer Club, and these convivial gatherings lasted till 
the early hours of the morning. Misery scarcely ever 



i6o PERDITA 

stalked abroad in the purlieus of the prison, but lay 
skulking indoors, reluctant to expose itself to the 
gibes of drunkards and gamblers whose audacity was 
heightened by continuous contact with fellow criminals 
in a restricted area where the whole standard of decorum 
was debased by foul air and filthy conditions consecrated 
by the sanction of law and government. 

For more than nine months Mary never left the 
building in which she lived, and the monotonous 
drudgery of each day weighed upon her blithe nature 
with increasing severity. Sometimes she wondered if 
it would be her fate to die in prison, and she thought 
frequently of her former governess Meribah Lorrington, 
who, as she learned now from her mother, had died of 
drink in the Chelsea workhouse. Even in the seclusion 
of her apartments she was not secure from insult, for 
not only were messages delivered to her from Mr. 
Fitzgerald and Lord Lyttelton, inviting her to purchase 
freedom at the cost of what they termed a misguided 
respectability, but also she was forced into the company 
of Albanesi's wife whenever she came to visit her 
incorrigible husband. The Italian was so amusing 
that she could not deny a certain fascination in his 
presence, and the household duties added to those of 
looking after her child were arduous enough to make 
conversational recreation welcome. But Angelina 
Albanesi represented all that she most abhorred, a 
woman blind to every principle but self-interest. Her 
lovers had been numerous, and included the Count 
Belgiojoso. It was with women of this character in 
their mind that Fitzgerald and Lord Lyttelton, as she 
now realised, continued to hope in her ultimate sur- 
render ; and the signora, inspired no doubt by their 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY i6i 

friendly influence, lost no opportunity of dwelling on 
the absurdity of her loyalty to the faithless Tom. 

Mary used to wonder in her solitary hours if the 
signora had ever dreamed of the pains and the con- 
solations of motherhood. She could not give even this 
woman credit for deliberately ignoring a whole side of 
human nature. As the spring deepened into summer 
she would spend evenings walking about the racket- 
court with Maria and watch the child's tiny hands 
stretched towards the stars as if to clutch them. At 
this period she was engaged on a new poem called 
" Captivity." Albanesi drew a frontispiece for her, 
smiling cynically all the while at his powers of self- 
suppression. " Look at it," he would say to Tom, 
holding it up between thumb and forefinger in an 
attitude of ridicule. " Who would think that this chaste 
lady chained to the broken column of Liberty, on which 
the light of a vestal lamp still burns, is the work of me, 
Albanesi ? But is it not the artist's duty to conceal 
his personality ? " 

If the picture belied the sentiments of the draughts- 
man, the poem, it must be admitted, was no truer reflec- 
tion of life within the walls of the prison. Mary did 
not look beyond the confines of her own misery, and 
the poem is one long sigh after an idealised retirement 
into a cottage " not idly gay but elegantly neat," where 
virtue may remain unmolested. Except for an out- 
burst on the greedy creditor and his flinty indifference 
to the woes of the oppressed, the verses are a passion- 
less performance. When Lyttelton saw them on 
publication, " This poem should have obtained an 
earlier release for Robinson," he exclaimed. " No 
government should detain within its prison walls the 

II 



i62 PERDITA 

husband of a woman who can write such bad stuff- 
on the subject. Literature is degraded by the process. 
On submitting the manuscript to competent authorities, 
pardon should have been granted with a veto on 
publication, and a promise should have been exacted 
from the lady not to repeat the off^ence." 

Georgiana Cavendish, the accomplished Duchess of 
Devonshire, thought otherwise, but her hterary judgment 
was obscured by philanthropic motives, Mary had 
sent her a volume of her earlier poems, and the kind 
creature had taken a warm interest in Mary's misfor- 
tunes. She was a year younger than the imprisoned 
poetess, between whose fate and her own lay such a 
width of disparity that it challenged into activity all 
the impetuous generosity of her nature. Little more 
than a year had passed since she had married '* the 
first match in England," and already she was winning 
golden opinions from all who enjoyed the privilege 
of her acquaintance. She was not content to help 
Mary with her patronage ; she must see her, and so 
by an invitation repeated more than once in terms of 
the greatest delicacy, she succeeded in enticing Mary 
from the prison to pay a call at Devonshire House. 
Pale and worn with her long seclusion, having almost 
lost the desire for contact with the fashionable world, 
Mary puts on a neat dress of brown satin, the smartest 
relic of her attenuated wardrobe, and in fear and tremb- 
ling is shown into the back drawing-room of the great 
lady's house. Imagine the surprise of both these young 
ladies when the lively young Duchess sweeps into the 
room in that easy, turbulent manner that was so 
characteristic of her, and made her always look as if 
she were on her way to something, and to something 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 16;^ 

brave and good. She had expected — she scarcely knew 
what, but an apparition altogether different from this 
slight, timid girl with the legend of pain and suffering 
in her eyes. And to Mary the engaging simplicity of 
the Duchess was like the morning air after a night of 
oppression. She had expected an interview of distant 
formality, and instead of this, she was surprised into 
a love for the great young lady as soon as she was 
confronted with her, and without knowing how she had 
come by the sentiment. It was not only the ease of 
her own manner, but the ready art of putting other 
people at their ease that made of Georgiana Cavendish 
such a gracious figure. She could not have listened with 
more consideration to a Cabinet Minister than she now 
listened to Mary's brief account of her troubles, and 
she made the speaker feel that in recounting them she 
was conferring a benefit on the listener. Her sympathy 
expressed itself in no common consolatory phraseology ; 
it was in her eye and in her attitude. 

When Mary left Devonshire House, she felt as if 
she had suddenly become possessed of some great 
inexplicable gift. With the exception of her mother, 
she had been deprived of female society in the prison ; 
for not one of her friends had been to visit her. She 
often thought with bitterness of the readiness with 
which they had courted her in the prosperous days of 
Hatton Garden. A number of small circumstances 
had conspired to prevent Mrs. Parry from reaching 
her friend on each occasion that she had set out with 
an intention of visiting Mary, so that the good lady was 
also swept into Mary's condemnation. But now balm 
had been poured upon Mary's wounded spirits by the 
sympathy which Georgiana had so well known how 



1 64 PERDITA 

to disclose. Mary felt as if she owed to her new friend 
a more charitable belief in the goodness of human 
nature, a belief which had begun to languish under the 
humiliations of her present existence. Nor was it 
chiefly by the interest displayed in her literary ambi- 
tions that Georgiana had won Mary's heart. She had 
enquired with genuine solicitude after her child, and 
had made her promise to bring it with her on the 
occasion of her next visit. 

The darkness of her prison life was made less intoler- 
able now to Mary by the memory of this visit and the 
prospect of others to come. She completed her poem 
on " Captivity " and wrote a dedication to the Duchess, 
whom she had described in lines of sympathetic admira- 
tion. With the prospect of once more rousing attention 
in literary circles, she began to look to the future with 
hope. Moreover the crowded state of the prison, which 
had been selected by John Howard as an object for 
philanthropic denunciation, had begun to be treated as 
a subject for legislative reform. The number of children 
exceeded even the number of prisoners within its walls. 
Frequently the floor of the chapel was used in lieu of 
a bed by those unable to obtain regular accommoda- 
tion. When on the 23rd of May, 1776, news reached 
the prisoners that an Act had been passed for the Relief 
of Insolvent Debtors, there was much rejoicing ; for 
every one knew that the primary object of the Bill had 
been to disencumber the prisons. By the end of 
September Tom was able to set aside some debts, give 
fresh security for others, and so obtain his release. 
Signor Albanesi was less fortunate, and expressed extra- 
vagant sorrow at parting with Tom. In fact the two 
had spent many merry hours together in gambling, 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 165 

drinking, and playing Mississippi ; and on each occasion 
that Mary had gone to visit the Duchess, Tom had 
proved a spirited companion in a fresh intrigue. 

It is very well to be impatient with Mary for not 
breaking away from such an impenitent husband, but 
to do so would have added further license to the 
addresses of men like Lord Lyttelton. She adhered 
with a persistence almost comic, in view of the facts, 
to her conventional right to be respected as Mrs. 
Robinson. Something yet lingered in her of a girl's 
romantic impulse to reform a rake ; for in spite of her 
innocence, she might easily have fallen in love with 
a rake before her marriage and have wedded him under 
a similar delusion to that which still encouraged her 
to think that Tom could be won from his vices. The 
question had not arisen over Tom when he had insinu- 
ated himself into an engagement. She had not liked 
him, and so had not stopped to weigh his qualifications. 
Now she was his wife, and the number of his infidelities 
(she discovered fresh instances of them in the prison, 
and ridiculed his denials until they were succeeded by 
a silence of admission) added a touch almost of malice 
to the resolution which she had formed, that she would 
win him back. Other women could afford to abandon 
him ; it was the nature of their bargain. In remaining 
loyal to him herself and in ignoring in public all 
admission of his faults, she marked an appreciable 
distinction between herself and the degraded women 
with whom he associated. 

So far from retiring to that cottage " not idly gay 
but elegantly neat " of which she wrote in her poem, 
Mary lost little time after their release from prison 
before she reappeared at Vauxhall. The gay liberty of 



1 66 PERDITA 

the place appealed to her with redoubled force after 
her long period of seclusion. The lamps and the music 
were delightfully refreshing in exchange for the dark- 
ness and the uproar of the prison. Whatever misgivings 
she may have felt as to the reception that would be 
accorded to her by old acquaintances were soon 
dissipated, for past misfortune was never allowed 
to disturb the serenity of gossip in a pleasure garden. 
Nearly everybody knew that the Robinsons had only 
just been released, but the circumstance was regarded 
as a private matter which should in no way be suffered 
to mar the conviviality of the moment. Lord Lyttelton 
could not refrain however from a mischievous allusion. 
" In spite of all that has passed," said he, staring 
critically at Mary, *' you are handsomer than ever." 
The compliment was no more lost upon her than the 
insult. She made no reply. If her beauty was 
unimpaired (and she was ready enough to take the 
word of a libertine for that), why should she not believe 
in the integrity of her talents ? Already the air of 
Vauxhall Gardens had breathed new life into her starving 
ambitions. It was on the rock of her beauty that 
happiness had already split. She thought again of the 
stage. Tom would never make any money, and from 
the repeated refusals of his father to aid him it was 
clear that he would never be free from embarrassment. 
How misguided had been her mother's dissuasion from 
the dramatic career ! Not only the applause of 
multitudes but also decent competence might by now 
have been hers if she had been allowed to follow the 
bent of her inclinations. But was it too late ^ She 
fancied she could hear the comments of Mr. Harris on 
the subject. Of course he would say she ought to take 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 167 

to dressmaking or some trade. But she did not know 
how to make dresses, and had no opportunity of being 
initiated into any trade, whereas she could recite her 
lines well. Had not Mr. Garrick said so ? 

But what of the perils to which a stage life would 
expose her ? A couple of years ago she had not 
realised what was meant by those who dwelt so heavily 
on this argument. Now she knew. But how had she 
come by this knowledge .? Not on the stage, not 
in courting public attention in the glamour of assumed 
characters, but as a private person condemned by the 
hazard of circumstance to expose her beauty to the 
merciless calculations of the cynic and the macaroni. 
Acting was not an idle recreation. Garrick had taught 
her that. But what was to become of Maria if her 
whole time went in rehearsals and the learning of parts ? 
She turned sick at the reflexion, which, like some sudden 
pain that usurps the whole attention, rapt her from 
all thought of herself. Gradually however the very 
thought of Maria led her back to her conviction that in 
the stage and in the stage alone lay for her the possible 
rescue from a desperate situation. She must make 
money, she must work for her child, and the obvious 
way in which to do her duty was to use the gifts that 
God had given her and turn them to practical advantage. 
Before, it had been a matter of lofty aspiration ; now 
(and herein lay the surprise of the discovery) it was a 
matter of urgent necessity that she should go on the 
stage. When aspiration and necessity pull together, 
how can doubt subsist ? Shrouded from the base 
scrutiny of personal admiration in the disguise of such 
roles as she assumed, she would escape the persecution 
of men like Lyttelton. As " Mary Robinson " she 



1 68 PERDITA 

would cease to exist for the public. Her honour would 
be safe in making her beauty do service for the 
embodiment of imaginary characters in an imaginary 
world. She needed some such screen as publicity 
would hold up, to hide from her the painful con- 
templation of her own life. The more she could 
subordinate the memory of past sufferings to the 
absorbing preoccupation of making a character live, 
the better she would be pleased, the lighter would 
be the burden of the days to come. 

It was with thoughts like these in her head that as 
she walked with Tom in St. James's Park in the late 
autumn of 1776 they were greeted by Mr. Brereton of 
Drury Lane Theatre. The actor gladly consented to 
dine at Lyne's, the confectioner in Old Bond Street 
over whose shop the Robinsons were temporarily lodged. 
Mary had not forgotten his stories about Mrs. Abington, 
and she now plied him with many questions as to her 
own chances of success. Brereton was warm in his 
encouragement, and, urged by her entreaties to an 
expression of candour, declared not only that she had 
the voice and the dramatic instinct but also the jfigure 
and the " marking eye " for the stage. Beauty, he 
said, was not enough. More than half the beauties in 
England would cut a sorry figure on any stage. The 
body must take certain lines easily, and as he spoke he 
struck attitudes to denote his meaning, Mary listened 
and looked with rapt attention. It was as if the veil of 
her childhood's illusion hung once more before her 
eyes in all its enticing lustre. The enchanted hours 
with Garrick were made nearer in remembrance by the 
discourse of Brereton. All that had happened between 
was oblivion, the nothingness of actual experience that 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 169 

has failed to enrich the individual and so fades into the 
untenanted darkness of a lumber room upon which the 
key is turned for ever. 

When next Mr. Brereton visited the Robinsons, they 
had moved into apartments in Newman Street. Mary ' 
was again with child. The appearance of a stranger 
with Mr. Brereton disconcerted her, but the mixture of 
sweetness and gravity in his address soon disarmed her 
of all self-consciousness. This was Mr. Sheridan, the 
talented author of " The Rivals," who had recently 
bought a share of Drury Lane Theatre. He was then 
twenty-six years of age, and gave an impression of one 
whom Fame had marked out for a companion before he 
himself was aware of her intentions. Others might - 
carve a way industriously into her favour. Sheridan 
followed the star of his own temperament, and asked for 
no happier guide. The charm of his personality was 
swiftly felt by Mary, but when she asked herself wherein 
it lay she was unable to explain it. From the moment of 
his introduction he had watched her closely until he took 
his leave. She had been sensible too that she was under 
observation, but it was the observation of one assuming 
the presence of virtues wherever he looked, and undis- 
turbed, even edified in a way by the vices which did not 
escape him in his excursions into the depths and shallows 
of human nature. No regular beauty of feature dis- 
tinguished that lovable face, but in the cold clear depths 
of those sanguine brown eyes lay an unfathomable well 
of high spirits and the joy of life. When he asked 
Mary to recite for him, it was with the air of one 
expecting pleasure. At first she was nervous and spoke 
her lines coldly enough, but he waited patiently for 
a felicity of tone which he knew must come, and then 



lyo PERDITA 

expressed by a rapid look at Brereton his appreciation. 
The impersonality of his praise stimulated her to a 
more reckless exercise of her powers. If he had 
doubted before (and his manner entirely disarmed 
all suspicion of such a doubt) he was articulately- 
certain now. At his request she passed from Cordelia 
to Juliet, taking the scenes with Romeo in the Second 
Act. Mr. Brereton recited Romeo and she followed, 
while Mr. Sheridan stood at some distance gazing 
steadily into the air as he listened to the familiar music 
of the lines. At the close of a scene, so absorbed is he 
in the play, that at Juliet's " good-night " he snatches 
the role from Brereton and cries : 

Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast — 
Would I were sleep and peace. 

Brereton's laugh recalls them to earth, and the 
improvised rehearsal ends in merriment. 

Sheridan came again to hear her in the tragic parts 
of the play, but less to criticise than to encourage 
her. With her permission an appointment is made 
in the Green Room of Drury Lane Theatre, when the 
principal scenes are rehearsed in the presence of Mr. 
Garrick, who is agreeably surprised at this occasion 
for renewing acquaintance with his old pupil. But 
a few months have passed since the memorable night 
on which he himself has said farewell to the stage. 
Mr. Brereton again recites Romeo, and Tom and Mr. 
Sheridan wait eagerly to hear the comments of the great 
actor. Garrick is all for Mary making her appearance 
as Juliet. With a glance of comic envy at Brereton 
he sighs at the passing of the years ; " I grow more 
and more like Lear and less and less like Romeo," 




From a photograph of the picture by George Romney. 

R. BRINSLEY SHERIDAN AND MRS. ROBINSON. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 171 

he cries, " but if the music of a voice could put new 
blood into these veins, Mrs. Robinson would do it." 
He offers to train her for the part, and presents her 
with a copy of his own version of the play. 

As they leave the theatre, Tom wonders how much 
his wife may be expected to earn in her new pro- 
fession ; but Mary scarcely hears his questions as 
to the particulars of the arrangement to be concluded. 
Her mind still clings to the scene she has left, and 
the passion of Shakespeare's music lingers in her ears 
as she walks rapidly through the cold streets in the 
gloomy twilight of an advancing November evening. 
At last she is to come into her legitimate inheritance, 
at last she has been able to silence the "I dare not" 
that has waited on her " I would " since the day in 
Bristol when she saw Mr. Powel in " King Lear." 
Fortune has not deserted her through all her mis- 
fortunes. She stands now on the threshold of the 
door to fame, and already the clamour of public 
applause sings in her ears. As she enters her apart- 
ment, the little Maria crows from her basket at the 
sound of her approach. She catches up the child, 
and all the mother rushes into her eyes as she kisses 
it again and again. Suddenly she turns as if she 
has been caught unawares in a secret action. In the 
confusion of her brain she imagines that the tender 
lovable eyes of Sheridan are witnesses of her emotion. 
The room is dark save for the uncertain light cast 
from the fireplace. But as suddenly the illusion 
vanishes and she recognises the figure of Tom in the 
open doorway. 



XVI 

By a quarter past six on Tuesday evening, the tenth 
of December, seventeen hundred and seventy-six, every 
seat in Drury Lane Theatre was filled, the curtain 
rising punctually on the quarrel between Capulet and 
Montagu. In addition to the attractions regularly 
provided in " Selima and Azor," a masquerade intro- 
duced into the first act, and "The Funeral Procession," 
upon which the curtain was to rise in the last act, 
the play bills announced that the part of Juliet would 
be taken by " a young lady, being her first appearance 
upon any stage." The music, the scenes, and the 
dresses were entirely new for the occasion. 

From Garrick's version of the play it is easy enough 
to see the light by which he read Shakespeare for stage 
purposes. His first care was to quicken the action of 
the story ; the thing must be made to move more 
swiftly. Away with scenes of comic relief, away with 
long speeches, however beautiful the poetry, unless 
they are sustained by a passionate situation or carry 
the spectator into new phases of the plot, away with 
anything anywhere that is obscure. Transpose scenes 
where by so doing the course of the story is straightened. 
If necessary add a scene. But as a rule no more than a 
few lines need be interpolated to round off the rough 
edges left in the processes of compression or redistribu- 
tion. Shakespeare himself would most likely have found 

172 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 173 

no fault with Garrick for taking such liberties, although 
he might have condemned many an instance in which 
the liberty had turned into an unjustifiable license. He 
used other people's material freely for his own purposes, 
and would have seen no reason why his works should 
not be handled with equal freedom by other persons 
to serve their ends. By Garrick's shifts and economies, 
the play of " Romeo and Juliet " is strained to a pitch 
of exaggerated intensity. The passionate issues sweep 
before the spectator at a violent pace : and the speed 
of the adapter's vision, which concentrates itself upon 
the obvious aspect of the play to the exclusion of 
nearly all others, carries him to a conclusion entailing 
considerable outrage on the text, which in the rest of 
the version (except for the omissions and an occasional 
line) remains as Shakespeare wrote it. Most reverently 
Garrick felt about the character of Juliet, for it is the 
least touched of all in his version. 

Brereton depicted the Romeo of his period, an English 
Romeo of the eighteenth century in powder and frills, 
as gloriously free from all thought of what the Veronese 
lover of the thirteenth century may have resembled as 
the Elizabethan Romeo in a slashed doublet of Shake- 
speare's own day. He took his part a little boisterously, 
allowing the passion to break out in spasms that rent 
the fine fabric of the lines here and there to tatters. 

And Mary.'' Now that the moment of realisation 
is upon her, how does she bear herself.'' The play 
was full of allusions to her own life, and in rehearsing 
her part with Mr. Garrick it had seemed that her 
personal sorrows were being melted in the red-hot 
crucible of the actor's enthusiasm. He had repeatedly 
gone through the whole part of Romeo with her, and 



174 PERDITA 

she wished again and again that he could have appeared 
in the stead of Mr. Brereton. At every turn in the 
play a line or even a word had recalled experiences 
of her own. Was Juliet scarce fourteen ? Mary was 
not much more than a year older when she married. 
Was Lady Capulet importunate in impressing her 
daughter with the duty of marriage ? Mrs. Darby 
had not been less so. Now that life had inflicted on 
her the pain and the bitterness of a loveless marriage, 
all that Mary had dreamed of love came as it were 
from the dark chamber in which her troubled fancy 
had groped, into the open daylight of articulation in 
the scenes with Romeo. The custom of the stage 
had not yet dulled her sensibiUty to the overwhelming 
confluence of the real with the mimic life. Her nerves 
tingled under the fusion of her own sorrows with the 
joys of Juliet as the play opened. This was no 
rehearsal but the night itself, and to Mary in the 
first throes of her experience as an actress it seemed 
as if the veil between the counterfeit and the real 
must fall away in the actuality of her appearing on 
the stage of Drury Lane Theatre, 

She stands waiting in the side wing in her 
dress of pink satin trimmed with silver-spangled 
crape, her head ornamented with white feathers. At 
a few paces distant. Lady Capulet is asking the nurse 
after her daughter, and the garrulous old woman 
flutters about the stage crying after her charge, calling 
her "lamb" and "ladybird." Suddenly she runs off 
to fetch her. Mary's moment has come. She is 
trembling violently and leans almost fainting on the 
nurse's arm, while it seems to her as she is borne 
on the stage that the voice of Mr. Sheridan, who had 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 175 

been by her side, is sounding in her ears. At the 
same moment a tempest of applause shakes the 
building from one end to the other. Luckily Juliet 
has little to say in her first scene, and the confusion 
of her manner may well be mistaken by the audience 
for the shy reluctance with which she hears Lady 
Capulet's proposition for her marriage. In the mas- 
querade she recovers her self-possession and dares to 
look away from the stage into the deep cavern of 
faces before her. For a moment her eyes encounter 
those of Mr, Garrick, who sits in the orchestra closely 
watching the performance. But now the revellers bid 
Capulet good-night. Soon the front of the stage is 
empty but for the nurse and Juliet. Silently Juliet 
watches the figures disappear, almost like one in a 
trance. Suddenly she starts and calls the nurse, asking 
her to name first two gentlemen who mean nothing 
to her. The artifice is perceptible in the breathless 
haste with which, without heeding the nurse's replies, 
she makes enquiry of him that would not dance. At 
sound of the name Romeo she startles the house 
with an outburst of tragic violence. The scared nurse 
mumbles " What's this ? " Some one from another 
chamber calls " Juliet ! " and as she goes off, the curtain 
falls slowly and Mary is met by a chorus of con- 
gratulation from her friends in the wing of the scene, 
while the buzz of conversation in the audience reaches 
her where she stands, rising to a queer impersonal roar 
and then subsiding almost into silence. 

In the second act the critics had an opportunity of 
measuring the modulations of the new Juliet's voice 
as she sighs and swoons her way through the rapturous 
converse with Romeo. Sometimes the intonation sounds 



176 PERDITA 

artificial, but the voice is as silvery as Garrick thought 
it, and to make up for the stiffness in the highly pitched 
passages, the artless inspiration of the simpler short 
sentences, the girlish abandonment in their utterance, 
the involuntary grace of her impersonation, compel 
homage even from the sternest spectator. Maybe it 
was the youth in Mary that made her Juliet so winning, 
but it was not the youth of mere years : rather an 
indefatigable elasticity of spirits, a sort of Arcadian 
juvenility that communicates itself to others with 
mysterious rapidity. Many an aged gentleman in the 
pit that night wished, nay felt himself a Romeo as 
the play progressed. A few lines of Shakespeare well 
said will cause one to forget his baldness, another his 
grey hairs, so the talk be of nightingales and larks 
and youthful lovers ; and again, where it is of withered 
oaks and the storms of a spent life, who can hear the 
lines and not grow older in the hearing .'' You may 
make old men of boys in an afternoon by making 
them listen to a speech of Lear in the mouth of a 
master ; and on this night many an aged citizen of 
London in the pit of Old Drury Lane Theatre forgot 
his business and his domesticities, and his substantial 
superiorities to the impecunious man of fashion, and 
fancied himself a very Romeo as he listened with 
almost proprietary reverence to the flute-like softness 
of Mrs. Robinson's voice. Her power of alternating 
between tragic despair and the careless lyricism of 
sustained passion revealed itself to a surprised audience, 
in the third act, when in her frenzied colloquy with 
the nurse she mistakes the death of Tybalt for that 
of Romeo himself. As she played with increasing 
confidence the applause grew more frequent, nerving 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 177 

her to the exercise of fresh efforts. The awe with 
which that cavern of faces had inspired her when first 
she suffered her eyes to travel in its direction gave 
place, as the evening wore on, to a sense of almost 
defiant indifference. It was as if her conception of 
the whole art of acting had been violently enlarged 
under the pressure of a single experience, and an 
almost contemptuous sense of triumph possessed her 
as she spoke the lines in the fourth act before she 
drank the potion. Instead of stabbing herself and 
falling on Romeo's corpse in the fifth act in the 
traditional way of concluding the part, Mary Robinson 
rushed in a frenzy from the body of her lover and 
killed herself on the opposite side of the stage. The 
innovation was not a success, but the whole of this 
closing scene was so deformed in the acting version, 
that nothing could save it from condemnation ; and 
the critics, no more discriminating in those days 
than in our own, spoke slightingly of the actress's 
attempts to represent pathos by whispers and passion 
by ranting, whereas the fault lay in the mutilation of 
the play with its ludicrously theatrical consequences. 
Not that the audience minded, for by this time they 
were in such spirits at the whole performance that 
it would have been difficult indeed to check the flow 
of their applause. As the curtain fell on the last act, 
the footmen in the gallery cheered, the ladies beat 
the ledges of the boxes with their fans. Mr. Garrick 
left the orchestra to go on the stage and congratulate 
his pupil. She was already the centre of a group of 
ladies and gentlemen who were vying one with the 
other in paying her compliments. Some were members 
of the profession, some critics for the daily newspapers. 

12 



178 PERDITA 

Mary stood in their midst, radiant in the suit of 
white satin with its long gauze veil which she had 
assumed for the final scene. She scarcely heard the 
remarks that were addressed to her. It was all a 
tumult of voices and rapidly passing figures. Hurried 
exchange of opinion between critics reached her ears. 
*' A genteel figure ! " *' Ay, and her features when 
properly animated are striking." " The voice of a 
nightingale." "Genius in the rough. She is too 
unfamiliar with the stage." 

Mary wondered that they could be so eager in 
discussing the performance now that it was over. 
Soon they were gone, each to his tavern to finish 
writing his notice of the play. Suddenly she found 
herself alone, and the sense of her solitude came upon 
her with increased force for the rapidity with which 
the crowd about her had melted out of sight. The 
gloom of the churchyard scene was upon her, and the 
sound of voices and the cries of the linkboys and the 
turmoil of carriages outside the theatre came to her 
in a confused roar as if the whole of London were 
astir with the feuds of Capulet and Montagu. Through 
an eyehole in the drawn curtain she peered into the 
empty house with its rows and rows of tenantless 
seats alive but a few moments before with the en- 
thusiastic gestures of men and women, now silent 
as the tomb of Capulet itself. She knew that a few 
paces from her was the Green Room ; that she had 
only to enter it, once more to be a centre of applause ; 
but she felt an elevation in her solitude, an exalted 
detachment from the trivialities of the occasion. All 
this commotion was concerned with her achievement. 
Its extent could best be measured, its full flavour best 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 179 

be tasted by loitering in this strange seclusion so 
near the turbulent regions of adulation, so remote in 
its tranquillity, in its air of a place in which great 
things have happened and are all over. 

As she moved noiselessly about the stage, running 
her hand along the ledge of Capulet's tomb as if to 
assure herself of its substantial existence, she fancied 
she heard a voice cry " Mrs. Robinson ! " and turning 
in the direction of the sound, descried Mr. Sheridan 
evidently in the act of seeking her. She hastened to 
confront him. He was alone. As soon as he beheld 
her he stopped short in his rapid passage across the stage 
and looked round with an air of comical satisfaction 
at the scene in which she was discovered, as if to 
make himself acquainted with the frame of her mind 
now that he had come thus unexpectedly upon her. 

*' Mrs. Robinson, they are calling for you in the 
Green Room," said he. " The festival is incomplete 
indeed without its Juliet. I did not think to find 
you wandering amongst these paper tombs. And yet 
perhaps the crowd is no company for you. You have 
done nobly ! Garrick is delighted. I can find no 
words in which to express to you my satisfaction. 
And this is only the beginning. The star of your 
fame has but peeped from the rim of the horizon, and 
yet how the point sparkles already ! But I have 
disturbed you. Such moments as that in which I 
found you are precious. Let me withdraw and announce 
to the others that you will soon be with them." 

" Oh no, Mr. Sheridan, I beg you will not go ! " 
said Mary, while her heart was beating strangely under 
the excitement of this unexpected encounter. " I 
hope your kindness towards me, your belief in my 



i8o PERDITA 

talents, has not been misplaced. Your esteem is 
valuable, far more valuable than the applause of the 
people in the playhouse. I scarce know what I am 
saying," she faltered. '* I cannot express what I 
feel." 

" These sentiments do honour to you, Madam," said 
Sheridan, '* and if you are moved beyond the power of 
expression in these surroundings it is no unnatural 
tribute to the associations of this theatre. For more 
than a century it has been the home of great actors 
and great actresses, I like to fancy a meeting of the 
men and women whose illustrious names shine down 
the long roll of years — honest Betterton ; the lovely 
Bracegirdle and poor Mountford, pinked through the 
heart for her sake ; wonderful Anne Oldfield flashing 
humour from those small hard eyes ; portentous Booth. 
Perhaps their ghosts do haunt this place when all the 
city is asleep and even the players are gone home to 
bed. The spirits of other Juliets hover about this 
scene. The lustre of your fame, Mrs. Robinson, shall 
shine no more dimly for their neighbourhood. But 
so long as we stay here the ghosts are too shy to come 
out and discuss the new Juliet. Lend me your arm 
and let us quit the churchyard for the supper table." 

The sound of laughter and the ring of glasses 
reached them as he spoke. Mary never felt prouder 
than when she appeared in the doorway of the Green 
Room leaning on Mr. Sheridan's arm. 

" A toast, a toast ! " cried he, looking down the table 
at the gay company of men and women who stopped 
the flow of their conversation and laughter to listen 
to him. " The new Juliet ! Mrs. Robinson ! " All 
eyes turned to where she stood, a conspicuous figure 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 



i«i 



even amid that company in her white satin gown with 
the chain of beads at her waist supporting a massive 
cross. She looked like some dainty figure in white 
porcelain from the potteries of Meissen. Mr. Garrick 
now rose from the table, and with the old actor on 
one side and the young author on the other, she was 
dragged to the head of the table. 

" Mrs. Robinson between the Muses of Tragedy 
and Comedy ! " cried Sheridan, in allusion to the picture 
of Garrick by Reynolds painted fifteen years before. 
The jest was hailed with shouts of laughter and huzzas. 
Soon Mary was eating a slice of fat capon and drinking 
red punch. Mr. Sheridan introduces his young wife. 
It is late before the company disperses, and the courts 
and the taverns round old Drury are silent, as Mary, 
wrapped in a flowing mantle and closely hooded, 
steps into a hackney coach to which Mr. Sheridan 
has conducted her, and drives to Newman Street with 
the stars blinking at her from a clear cold sky through 
the open window of the coach and her cheeks tingling 
with the wintry air of mid-December before sunrise. 



XVII 

Mrs. Darby was resigned rather than reconciled to 
the sudden change in her daughter's life, nor did 
an encouraging letter from the Duchess of Devonshire 
dispel those anxieties with which she was beset. The 
public flattery of persons like Mr. Sheridan and Mr. 
Garrick was alluring, but the distractions of a theatrical 
career alarmed and disconcerted her. She rarely ac- 
companied her daughter to the theatre, and she occu- 
pied herself closely with the little Maria. As an 
amusement the play had always attracted her, as a 
profession she viewed it with all the more mistrust for 
being unable to look at it as an intelligible occupation. 
Messages came at all hours of the day from the theatre, 
Mary was subjected to all the inconveniences of sudden 
rehearsals, irregular meals, the stress of difficult relations 
with a number of people with all of whom it was as 
necessary as it was difficult to keep on good terms 
for her own success. Mrs. Darby felt incapable of 
keeping abreast with the numerous situations, trifling 
as they were, presented by each day's business. For 
her, it was as if she had followed Mary from the days 
of her childhood with breathless anxiety in a chase 
that did not admit of the attention being relaxed 
for a single moment until — behold ! the girl had dis- 
appeared round a dark corner, and before the pursuer 
could come up with her again, a veil had dropped between 

182 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 183 

her and the fugitive whom she saw now dimly, disporting 
herself in an alien world in which everybody seemed 
to be in a perpetual hurry and the passage from one 
day's business to another was a precarious bridge of 
imminent disasters. What was the poor lady to make 
of a profession which persuaded her daughter, so soon 
before she was again expecting to be a mother, to pass 
rapidly from the impersonation of a humorous young 
wife of her own period teaching a merry lesson to 
a foolish husband, to that of an outraged Persian queen 
in a picturesque costume of blue and white, her figure 
devoid of hoop, her head of powder, and her feet 
bound by sandals richly ornamented with Oriental 
designs? And before Mary's startled mother can 
realise what a mine of unexplored emotional resources 
has been disclosed by the assumption of two such 
different roles, Mary is back again in the comedy of 
her own day, reflecting some of her own experience 
and playing a young wife doomed to keep her marriage 
secret and suffer the addresses of both an uncle and 
a nephew until a conspiracy of comic circumstances 
forces upon her the disclosure of her husband. 

Mr. Sheridan was enchanted with her. Had she 
not saved the fate of his " Trip to Scarborough " when 
the progress of the play was arrested by the indignation 
of an audience who recognised in it an adaptation of 
Sir John Vanbrugh's " The Relapse," and thought 
themselves cheated by the promise of a new play ? 
Pit and gallery had hissed Mrs. Yates off the stage. 
Mary stood alone facing the fury of the house. " Do 
not yield an inch, Mrs. Robinson ! " cried Sheridan 
from the wings ; and from his place in the stage box, 
" 'Tis not you, but the play they hiss ! " shouted the 



1 84 PERDITA 

Duke of Cumberland. Mary turned towards the 
King's brother and curtsied. The grace of her action, 
the unexpected source of comedy provided in it, 
disarmed the popular indignation, and the players, 
quick to grasp the slightest modulation in the mood 
of an audience, continued their parts without further 
interruption. 

The production of the " School for Scandal " was now 
settled upon, and the author was anxious to secure 
the services of Mrs. Robinson ; but to Mrs. Darby's 
relief, her daughter refused the offer, for to accept it 
would have been precarious in her present condition. 

When Sheridan next visited her it was with the 
blush of his new fame full upon him. His comedy had 
been hailed as a masterpiece, and the eighth of May, little 
more than six months after he entered upon the manage- 
ment of Drury Lane Theatre, was a date that shone 
with steady brilliance throughout his life in the calendar 
of his memory. On visiting Mrs. Robinson he found 
her in consternation ; her child, but six weeks old, lay 
dying on her lap. The artless sympathy of his manner 
endeared him more than ever to this unhappy mother. 
When he had left her, she thought with more than 
usual bitterness of Tom's infidelities. Was it wrong, 
dangerous, to draw consolation from her sentiments on 
Mr. Sheridan ? He was adorable. She dared not 
think into what perplexity she might be thrown if the 
steady ray of his chivalry were to burst into the flame 
of passion. His position as manager of the theatre 
invested him with that large freedom in her company 
necessitated by perpetual affairs of business in which the 
ceremonial of life had to yield to the importunities of 
the situation. Yet he never took advantage of this 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 185 

unchallenged freedom to humiliate her by reference to 
her unhappy domestic plight. Only by the increased 
sensibility of his manner did he show that he was aware 
of it. 

Soon after his departure the little Sophia died. Her 
grief came to her in a cloud. But a few months ago 
she had stabbed herself as Juliet, and the dagger of 
jealous Roxana, her rival in Alexander's love, had 
pierced her heart in the fabled gardens of Semiramis. 
Now her child lay dead in her new apartments in 
Southampton Street, Covent Garden. Her mother 
said bitter things about the playhouse, but to Mary the 
playhouse seemed to be the only refuge from the 
miseries of her life. It enabled her to bear with more 
fortitude the misfortune of being a neglected wife, to 
play upon the stage the part of a neglected wife. 
There were other ways of confronting unhappiness than 
by meek resignation. Of course her mother would 
never understand, but Mary would not suffer her talent 
as well as her domestic peace to be sacrificed to the 
consequences of a loveless marriage. At present she 
needs rest before she begins to study fresh parts, and 
with the permission of Mr. Sheridan she visits Bath. 
From Bath she is drawn once again to Bristol by that 
melancholy love of her birthplace that always found 
expression in solitary walks in the cloisters of the 
cathedral. But she is restless, and longs again for the 
distraction of the stage. At Sheridan's advice (as 
soon as she returned to London he came to see her in 
her lodgings in Leicester Square) she undertakes to 
play through the summer at the Haymarket Theatre ; 
but the contract is a dead letter, for the manager slights 
her in deference to the claims of Miss Farren, with whom 



1 86 PERDITA 

he cannot afFord to quarrel, and so Mary refuses to 
appear. She is quick to exhibit the caprices as well as 
the charms of a theatrical star in the ascendant, and takes 
a salary throughout the summer without once showing 
herself on the boards of the Haymarket. Mrs. Abing- 
ton herself could not have shown more temper on the 
occasion. 

But in the autumn of the year she is once more at 
Drury Lane, going mad as Ophelia, wishing her eyes 
basilisks to strike Gloucester dead as Lady Anne in 
" King Richard III.," unfolding the " sage and serious 
doctrine of virginity " asThe Lady in Milton's "Comus." 
The success with which she impersonates this ethereal 
figure clad in the complete steel of chastity adds zest to 
the pursuit of her admirers. For she is now a public 
personage who must pay the penalties of notoriety. 
Men fight a passage to her acquaintance. Milliners 
and mantua makers besiege her with obscure messages 
designed to compromise her. She laughs her way 
through every artifice, rejoicing in the exercise of her 
wit, for when once the functions of nature become 
a source of merriment, there is no longer cause to look 
upon the ground and hang the head. A year on the 
stage has hardened her address. Lord Lyttelton him- 
self has to admit that there is more in her than he had 
supposed, comforting himself for his repulse by the 
reflexion that she is now a public actress and that her 
beauty (like the lamps at Vauxhall) is lighted up every 
evening to provide any and every m.an with a delight- 
ful spectacle. 

But the fitful gusts of passion in the Macaronies 
who frequent the theatre exercise but little effect 
upon Mary. It needs but this revelation of human 




From an engraving by Thorntlnvaiti-', after ,i ilrawiiig hy V. Rubens. 
MRS. ROBINSON IN THE CHARACTER OF AMANDA, IN SHERIDAN's 
"a trip to SCARBOROUGH." 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 187 

nature in its grotesque antics on such a generous 
scale to confirm her in her aversion from intrigue. 
For what were all these lovers to the woman of an 
incurable sensibility ? She was no Mrs. Abington ; 
neither by birth nor by election was she the natural 
associate of cynics or men of the world. Such hardness 
as she acquired was a thin layer set by experience upon 
the unfathomable depths of her romantic nature. 
Whether it was a Queensberry, a Rutland or a 
Pembroke who insulted her by his offers of protection, 
what chance had he so long as she had reason to 
suspect his infatuation at its source ? Had she not 
paid by her marriage the full price of an alliance devoid 
of sensibility ? She would have gone to Botany Bay 
for Mr. Sheridan had he asked her. No marriage vow 
would have stopped her. It was the degrading 
character of Tom's associates rather than the fact of 
his infidelities that disgusted her. In the meanwhile 
her success becomes more and more assured as an 
actress. 

In January 1778 she is "The Runaway" Emily, a 
girl seeking refuge from a tyrannical uncle, with cherry- 
coloured cheeks and eyes that, in the words of a 
malicious rival in the play, from their want of expression 
might be taken for glass. The scene is a country 
house, and the talk is a babble of domesticity and the 
virtues. A few months later she is one of two wives, 
hard, brilliant, fashionable to a fault, each delighting 
that the other is an object of her husband's infidelity; 
both employing their joint resources to extract money 
from the tyrants. This time it is the town and the 
vices in lieu of the country and the virtues. Next 
come the swelling passions of Anthony's outraged wife, 



i88 PERDITA 

the calm, dignified Roman matron with her two little 
boys pleading for their father's return. She has 
brought them all the way to Alexandria, even into the 
torrid zone of Cleopatra's passion for her husband, and 
soon the two women are face to face in a scene of 
recriminations. But Octavia sounds the high note of 
dignity throughout, and surrenders Anthony once more 
rather than share his love with Cleopatra. 

From Octavia, Mary passed, a week later, to Lady 
Macbeth and a trifling operetta called " The Lucky 
Escape," for which she herself wrote the verses. The 
tragedy overweights her, and the critics for once agree : 
Vaulting ambition has o'erleaped itself. She recovers 
their favour before long by reappearing as Juliet. 
Tom all this time is in high feather, for his wife's 
salary enables him once more to cut a figure, and Mary 
is as prodigal in parting with her money as her husband 
is incapable of making any. Soon however the 
demands of his bond creditors exhaust the total sums 
due to his wife from her benefit performances. 

*'What are we to do?" she asked her husband coolly. 
'* 'Tis long since I have taken you seriously, but you 
take my money so seriously that soon I fear we shall 
be invited once more within the walls of a prison. 
This time I shall not accompany you. Could you 
not ask Lord Lyttelton to give you a post as steward 
of Hagley ? " 

Tom disliked the allusion to Lyttelton ; he dis- 
liked the subject altogether, and bit his lips in vexation 
as she spoke. 

'* You must come again to Tregunter," said he. 
'* Now you are famous, they will be highly flattered 
by the visit. You know if my father gives me any 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 189 

money it is yours. I am a poor hand at making it 
myself." 

*' But a skilled hand at spending it," 
" I wish I had your talent for acting. Upon my 
soul, Madam, you are hard on me." 
She looked contemptuously at him. 
" You want me to win a passage for you into Mr. 
Harris's purse ? " she asked. 

He laughed uneasily. " Why, Mary, you know 

you could persuade him. You have a way " 

She did not allow him to proceed any further. If he 
wished it, she would accompany him to Tregunter. 
Not that she anticipated any practical results from the 
visit, but she was herself curious to know what kind of 
a welcome would be extended to her now that she 
was independent of Mr. Harris's generosity. So once 
more they took the long journey, but with very 
different feelings from those with which they had 
last proceeded on their visit to Wales. If her own 
experiences in life had helped her to interpret her parts 
on the stage with vivacity and verisimilitude, those 
parts now contributed to aid her in the conduct of 
her private life. It was not for nothing that she had 
entered into the spirit of Vanbrugh's Araminta, and 
delighted the ladies and gentleman in the boxes with 
her caustic repartees and her calculating schemes for the 
discomfiture of Moneytrap, Araminta's husband. She 
could scarcely have shown more spirit in a first night's 
performance than she did on the occasion of this third 
visit to Mr. Harris. After all, what were these people 
to her ? She was visiting them to do her husband a 
service which might be to her own advantage. She 
liked to imagine herself as cold in performing this 



I90 PERDITA 

operation as the penniless spendthrift noblemen who 
racked their brains to entrap the daughters of rich 
citizens into an alliance with their titles in the plays 
which were so popular at Drury Lane Theatre. But 
the truth was, she looked forward with some malice to 
humiliating those who had humiliated her. Not that 
it needed words for this. Looks and, above all, clothes 
in that rural district sufficed. She took enough and 
saw that their fashion was marked enough to exercise 
the patience of Mrs. Molly and Miss Betsy to its limits. 
From their faces alone could Mary guess what they 
suffered, for Mr. Harris was now established in 
Tregunter House, and to express surprise at anything, 
however fashionable, would have been to discredit the 
reputation which was hoped from the splendour of that 
mansion. The critical attitude of the Tregunter ladies 
could only be conveyed therefore in constant appeals to 
Mrs. Robinson as the very oracle of taste, and in the 
assumption of an ignorance which was somehow made 
to suggest that in such matters it might well be folly 
to be wise. It was impossible to suppose that Miss 
Robinson could approve the dramatic life, but Mary 
took some delight in drawing her into an admission 
that one could not afford to be too nice where the 
necessity of earning a livelihood was concerned. 

As for Mr. Harris, he was far too cunning to allow 
what he was thinking to rise to the surface of his 
conversation. By his manner he conveyed a sort of 
patronising approval, as if in becoming an actress his 
daughter-in-law had been acting under his guidance. 
Necessity was a stern master but it taught many a 
valuable lesson. The compliments and the wide eyes 
of the neighbours when Mary went among them were 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 191 

taken by Mr. Harris as evidence of the increased 
importance conferred upon himself by his close associa- 
tion with a distinguished actress. But Mary put 
reins on his satisfaction by addressing many awkward 
questions to him with an air that would not be denied 
and could not be accepted as welcome, without reflecting 
awkwardly upon her host's character as a justice of 
the peace. Certain that the secret view of her morals 
must be unfavourable, she deliberately sprinkled a few 
grains of license in her conversation, and the fashion- 
able languor of her articulation added exasperation to 
the anxiety and misgiving of the ladies at the dangers 
of her captivation. 

Their relief was considerable when at the end of 
a fortnight the Robinsons took leave of Tregunter. 



XVIII 

On their way home they stopped in Bath, where they 
fell in with a gentleman to whom Tom had long ago 
given a promissory note in lieu of payment of a 
considerable sum of money. His amiable manners 
and the authority with which he retailed the scandals 
of Bath made him an entertaining companion. His 
father-in-law, as Master of the Ceremonies, occupied 
a post of fashionable distinction and exercised powers 
over the social life of the watering-place that lent a 
peculiar charm to his existence. His son-in-law was 
a creditable addition to the family, being as ready to 
make love to any woman worth the attempt and fight 
a duel on her behalf as could be desired, even at the 
headquarters of gallantry in Bath. Mary repelled his 
advances until she found it expedient to escape to 
Bristol, but she had not been there more than a day, 
when Tom was arrested at the suit of his gay creditor, 
who himself waited in an upper room of the inn to 
see the writ executed, and as soon as he was satisfied 
that Tom was in the hands of the sheriff's officer, sent 
a request, as if from a lady, for a few minutes' con- 
versation with his wife. Mary followed the waiter 
who brought the message into an adjoining room — 
where she was confronted with Tom's friend. The 
impudence of his demeanour did not frighten her. 
She knew that he was about to invite her surrender 

192 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 193 

as the price of her husband's liberty, and she laughed 
to herself at the eternal repetition of these infamous 
proposals. 

" Well, Madam," said the gentleman, smiling sarcasti- 
cally at her, " you have involved your husband in a 
pretty embarrassment. Had you been less severe 
towards me, not only this paltry debt would have been 
cancelled, but any sum that I could command would 
have been at his service. He has now either to pay 
me, to fight me, or to go to a prison ; and all because 
you treat me with such unexampled rigour." 

" I entreat you to reflect," said Mary with an air 
of assumed distress, *' before you drive me to dis- 
traction." 

'' I have reflected," said he, " and I find that you 
possess the power to do with me what you will. 
Promise to return to Bath — to behave more kindly — 
and I will at once discharge your husband." 

She found little difficulty in bursting into tears. 

" Monster ! " cried she, " no human being could 
propose such terms ! " 

The gentleman made preparations to take his depar- 
ture. He rang the bell and ordered the waiter to call 
his carriage. 

As soon as the man had gone on his errand : " Release 
my husband," cried Mary. " For heaven's sake do 
not provoke me further." 

The door was open ; her persecutor was on his way 
out, when she nimbly intercepted his passage and 
stood in the doorway, swaying her body as if in an 
agony of doubt and despair. 

" I will return to Bath," she cried in a voice of 
carefully modulated passion ; and then, as he started 

13 



94 



PERDITA 



at the unexpected announcement — " but it shall be 
to expose your dishonourable, your barbarous machina- 
tions. Your innocent wife shall learn your treachery. 
Your father-in-law shall lament the day he consented 
to call you son. The whole world shall know that 
the common acts of seduction are not sufficiently 
depraved for the mind of such a libertine and 
gamester as you." 

" You mistake me, Madam," said he in some alarm, 
for her voice had sounded with tragic fury into the 
passages of the inn. '' You must forgive the indis- 
cretions into which my passion may have betrayed me. 
I had no wish to insult you in your misfortune. But 
you can have no reason for remaining with your 
faithless husband. By his conduct he proves that he 

does not love you. By mine I hope to prove -" 

She looked up at him through her tears which she 
had suffered to fall in silence throughout his speech. 
He thought her softened towards him. 

*' There, Madam," said he, drawing a paper from 
his bosom, " there is your husband's release. I rely 
on your generosity. We meet again in Bath." 

Mary took the paper swiftly and looked at him with 
an admirable counterfeit of gratitude in her eyes. The 
waiter had announced the carriage, and from the window 
of the room in which they had been talking Mary 
watched her dupe drive from the inn door. Then, 
laughing bitterly at her own skill, she hastened to her 
husband with the discharge. 

But although the success of her artifice pleased her, 
she longed again for the stage, where she could honestly 
enter into the joys and the sorrows of an imagined 
world without degrading her profession by employing 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 195 

its resources in guarding her private life from insult. 
Soon she was back in London eagerly rehearsing the 
part of Palmira in *' Mahomet." Monsieur Voltaire 
was just dead, and the public was to be regaled with 
the big-mouthed rhetoric of his tragic muse in English 
dress : Palmira, the disciple of Mahomet, has been ' 
wrested from the Prophet by Alcanor, who champions 
the old faith of Mecca against the new comer. Palmira 
is in love with Zaphna. Both are the children of 
Alcanor, who is as unwitting of the relationship as they. 
Mahomet, to silence the opposition of Alcanor, bids 
Zaphna slay his father, and in return for the deed 
promises him Palmira. Incest is thus to be the price 
of parricide. The Prophet covets Palmira for himself, 
but when her lover, whom she has since recognised as 
her brother, is poisoned, and she finds that she has 
helped to kill her father, she takes refuge in suicide. 

Mary's eldest brother John Darby saw the curtain 
rise on this horrific tragedy with the utmost im- 
patience. He had come from Italy to spend a few 
months in London, and was with great difficulty 
persuaded to overcome his reluctance to see his sister 
on the stage. But no sooner had Palmira appeared ' 
in her pasteboard Mecca, than he started from his 
seat in the stage box and rushed precipitately from 
the theatre. Had he stayed through the play his 
emotions must have put a term to his holiday and 
sent him flying back to his business in Leghorn. As 
it was, he vowed never again to attempt to overcome 
his abhorrence of his sister's profession, nor could 
Mrs. Darby find much to urge in excuse of her 
daughter's choice of such a career. 

But the playgoers delighted in the tragedy of 



196 PERDITA 

" Mahomet " ; it was sinister and splendid, and Mrs. 
Robinson looked mighty fine as the horror-stricken 
Palmira. She was loaded with compliments whenever 
she entered the Green Room. And what a company- 
assembled each night in that corner of the theatre ! 
The days had long passed since you could pay for a 
visit behind the scenes, but no door was shut to genius 
and good comradeship where Sheridan was in command. 
So you might see Earl Derby and young Mr. Fox 
disputing over the rival merits of Miss Farren and 
Mrs. Robinson. Mr. Fox was emphatic in his pre- 
ference for Mrs, Robinson : Earl Derby smiled languidly 
at his vehemence. He was all for the other lady, 
whom he ultimately married. The battle over their 
beauty still rages with those who collect the pictures 
of that period. Another contemporary of Mary's who 
also was to be seen from time to time in the Green 
Room of Drury Lane Theatre was Priscilla Hopkins, 
her schoolfellow in Bristol, who married Mr. John 
Kemble the actor. Not only beauty but youth dis- 
tinguished those gatherings, for no one of these ladies 
was above twenty at this time. 

When she remembered that her twentieth birthday 
was still to come, Mary herself wondered that it had 
taken so little time to crowd her life with so many 
hazards and so many vicissitudes. Already she had 
been two years upon the stage ; already she had acted 
a dozen different r61es. Every day brought her fresh 
acquaintances. She now hired a house in Covent 
Garden. It was thronged with visitors, and her morning 
levees became the rage of the fashionable. All the 
splendour and the folly that had characterised her 
manner of life in Hatton Garden were reproduced on 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 197 

a scale of still more lavish proportions. Tom bought • 
horses, a phaeton and ponies ; and Mary's taste for 
dress, encouraged by the exigencies of the different 
characters which she had assumed, ran riot in an 
immense variety of costumes which were seized upon 
by the milliners and mantua makers of the town as 
models for the fashionable world. Such time as she 
could spare from the business of the theatre was spent 
in the pleasures of society and the card table. 

In spite of its auspicious opening, her dramatic career 
had been no leap into fame. Public opinion was apt 
to be fickle ; the critics were often supercilious ; 
competition was keen ; so was professional jealousy. 
But she had conquered a position, and never had she 
trodden earth so firmly as at the beginning of the year 
1779. She had had to pass through many a dark pas- v 
sage of doubt and difficulty to reach her triumph, but 
it was no less sweet in realisation than it had been in 
anticipation. Tom had now come to represent some- 
thing less tangible for her than the negro servant who 
had followed her through numerous changes of address 
and once more taken up his abode under her roof. 
But so long as there was the semblance of a husband 
in her neighbourhood, importunities were more easily 
checked ; and if Tom was a mere cypher in the domestic 
picture which she strove to preserve in the midst of all 
this splendour, her child was none the less a substantial 
factor in her existence : and the presence of even a 
merely nominal husband was useful to keep suitors at 
arm's length. 

On the twenty-ninth of January Mr. Garrick died in 
the house where, five years before, Mary had recited her 
lines to him. Dr. Johnson helped to launch the actor's 



198 PERDITA 

fame into eternity by writing : *' I am disappointed by 
that stroke of death which has eclipsed the gaiety of 
nations and impoverished the public stock of harmless 
pleasure " ; and on the first of February Mary's carriage 
was among those that made a long line from the Strand 
to Westminster Abbey, where the actor was buried at 
the foot of Shakespeare's statue. 

A couple of days later the dead man's lively young 
pupil charms the ladies in the boxes with the 
presentation of an artless younger sister's fortunes in 
a sprightly comedy of the time, and soon after she 
wrings their hearts with the misfortunes of a 
princess's waiting woman, frail victim to a murderous 
duke's affections, " the pure carnation of her dimpling 
cheek " blanched with fear as she is led through a forest 
of mediaeval Lombardy by hired assassins. For her 
benefit night in April she is Cordelia, and the memory 
of her dead master hangs all about her like a shroud 
as she plays the soft-voiced daughter to another Lear. 
Next month she is a resolute young lady in a comedy 
of the period eloping down a ladder of ropes in boy's 
costume, and again from Portia, sweetly solemn, she 
changes to Fidelia, a passionate and desperate woman 
assuming the male attire of a lieutenant in order 
to follow a misanthropical sea captain, and proceeding 
to the most outrageous hazards to compel him to yield 
himself prisoner to her desires. 

This impersonation lifts her at once into a new 
region of accomplishment. Few actresses who have 
had the wit and the courage have had the will to shine 
in a role that so pitilessly exposes the depths of feminine 
treachery. It is a role requiring the rare combination 
of suppleness and audacity besides the broadest intel- 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 199 

lectual conception of the shifts to which passion will 
reduce humanity and of the grimaces which nature 
compels into the faces of men and women struggling in 
the network of their own pitiful weaknesses. On the 
night that Mary played Fidelia most of the critics, with 
characteristic frivolity, were away listening to the sweet 
tunes in an Italian opera written upon the subject of 
Mr. Sheridan's " Duenna " ; nor must it be forgotten 
that many people were shocked at the success with 
which Mary put on the breeches in these parts. A 
correspondent in a morning paper about this date sighs 
for the days when women were altogether excluded 
from the stage and men put on the petticoats of female 
characters in order to spare their sisters the humiliation 
and the outrage on modesty involved in a public 
appearance on the boards of a theatre. 

As Viola, Mary is again a woman in man's attire 
pleading for the master whom she secretly loves before 
the woman who will have none of him, and again the 
misleading perfections of the pleader in her male 
disguise creep in at the eyes of the obdurate lady and 
make sport of her emotions. Fidelia and Viola are 
similar in outline, but in place of the unmerciful 
audacity of Wycherley pursuing the reality of his 
situations not only to the edge, but down the abyss of 
a precipice, are the rapture and the whimsical fancy of 
Shakespeare encrusting the thin ice of these situations 
with a thick layer of poetic imagery and effecting a 
romantic rescue of his persons from sheer castastrophe. 
Even Lord Lyttelton admired the dexterity of an actress 
who could assume two such parts in rapid succession. 
He had not credited the inexperienced girl of Hatton 
Garden with these powers. Always ready to admit an 



200 PERDITA 

intellectual error, he now wrote to Mary : " As Fidelia 
you enriched the leisure of a busy man, as Viola you 
have enlarged my view of Shakespeare. I had indeed 
utterly misjudged you, and on the word of a confirmed 
libertine could wish it were in my power to do you 
some reparation." 

Mary smiles as she tosses aside the letter. Her 
triumph is all the sweeter to her for this testimony 
to its value. But she is tired of the breeches, and 
while Lyttelton is still praising her masculine effrontery 
as Fidelia, she is drawing fresh crowds to Drury Lane 
Theatre as Sicily's lost daughter, the shepherdess at 
Bohemia's sheep-shearing festival, by the mere summer 
of her presence compelling from her swain words that 
send the blood into a face worthy of the goddess 
Flora. 



XIX 

Lord Lyttelton was ill at ease. The death of his 
cousin Captain Ayscough made him think more of that 
wholly disreputable person than he liked. He found 
himself wondering how it was that the memory of his 
foolish parasite was so lively. He had treated him 
again and again with the utmost contempt, had written 
of him, spoken of him, spoken to him in terms that 
would have forfeited most men's friendship, but 
Ayscough was always back again smiling at Lyttelton's 
elbow, until at last the young nobleman had come to 
acquiesce in his presence, regarding him in the light of 
an obsequious steward who presided over the viler 
portion of his master's estate. To free himself from 
the oppression of this man's memory and to prepare 
himself for the coming session in Parliament he had gone 
to Ireland for a week at the beginning of November. 
Lord North's Government had refused the Irish demand 
for troops wherewith to protect the country from 
foreign invasion. The consequences were serious, for 
the Irish associations had raised forty thousand volunteers 
without the consent of Great Britain. As a member 
of the Irish House of Commons told Lyttelton on his 
visit, they had their backs towards England and their 
faces towards America, and these armed volunteers were 
ready not only to repel foreign invasion but to resist 
English tyranny. Lyttelton prepared his speech for 

20I 



261 PERDITA 

the meeting of Parliament with exactitude. Not only 
had he carefully mastered the facts concerning the 
Volunteer movement, the demand for Free Trade, and 
the state of Irish opinion on the connection with Great 
Britain, but he had made numerous drafts of the 
speech, seeking in each fresh one to present his material 
with added compression and heightened eloquence, and 
using all the craft of his literary experience to aid him 
in his object. 

But as he sat in his house in Hill Street and polished 
the sentences with all the love of a collector rubbing 
the surface of a cherished jar with a silk cloth, the 
memory of Ayscough thrust itself up at him with 
increased importunity. *' How strange," meditated the 
young man, " that death should have swollen this man's 
importance, so as to make me unable to banish him 
from my thoughts." He was glad his cousin was dead, 
but he cursed him for coming between him and the 
fulfilment of this delicate, difficult work. Already he 
had a reputation in the House of Lords as an orator, 
and he enjoyed the knowledge that a speech from him 
commanded more than ordinary attention. Parliament 
was to meet on the following day. There were still 
rough edges here and there in the surface of his prose. 
Instead of directing his attention to their removal 
he found himself weakly admiring felicities in the 
phraseology of his speech. Again and again he ex- 
amined the words he had used to lash the pusillanimity 
of the Government, the indecisive and sluggish spirit of 
their administration. 

" A rope of sand crumbling away day by day," he 
kept on repeating to himself with an almost childish 
satisfaction in the figure. It was late enough to wonder 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 203 

whether his mind would not be freshened by a visit 
to the Pantheon, but he felt reluctant to move from his 
study, for the night was cold. Growing restless over 
his manuscripts he took a turn about the room and 
chanced upon a copy of Coombe's " Diaboliad " in his 
bookcase. The discovery jumped with the perpetual 
obsession of Ayscough in his mind, and he opened the 
poem at the page on which himself and his cousin were 
satirised. 

Suddenly he pushed the book from him in disgust. 
What a judgment to go down to posterity as the 
inseparable companion of such a man as Ayscough ! 
Yet so he was pictured in the poem. Since it waswritten, 
much had happened. He was no longer the wild 
scapegrace son of a distinguished man, but a peer 
of the realm with serious claims to statesmanship. 
Vice still exercised a fascination for him which he would 
have been the last to deny. In the summer of this 
very year he had lured two daughters of Mrs. Amphlet, 
a widow and a friendly neighbour of his late father's, to 
Hagley. Their mother had died recently. Lyttelton 
remembered with a shudder how Ayscough had con- 
gratulated him on the circumstance ; and the lines in 
Coombe's poem clung to his mind : 

Have I not acted ev'ry villain's part ? 
Have I not broke a noble parent's heart ? 
Do I not daily boast how I betrayed 
The tender widow and the virtuous maid ? 

Three years had passed since that poem was written,but 
the description was as just to-day as then. " And yet," 
Lyttelton reflected, " 1 am a good man in comparison 
with Ayscough." Then he laughed at himself for taking 
all this trouble to make moral distinctions. To-morrow, 



204 PERDITA 

as soon as his speech was over, he would go to Pit 
Place, his new home near Epsom, with a party of friends. 
The two Miss Amphlets should join him, and he would 
make merry after the strain of the debate. Pit Place 
was cosier than Hagley with its melancholy groves and 
classical statues. Comforted by the bright prospect, he 
seated himself again at his manuscripts, and was about 
to re-write a sentence which he deemed too cumbrous 
in construction, when he thought he heard the flapping 
of wings at the window of his study. So odd was the 
sound, so unexpected, so unmistakable in the silence 
of the night, which was by now far advanced, that Lord 
Lyttelton was tempted to ring for his servant. But it 
would take time to rouse him, and it was easier to 
leave the study and go to bed. 

'*This Irish business is wearing my brain," he 
muttered as he passed the window from which the 
sound had come. Yet he was conscious that a certain 
fear had fabricated for him an explanation for what was 
not intelligible. His main preoccupation was to get to 
bed as quickly as possible, and he flung his clothes in 
some disorder about the room, and extinguishing his 
candle drew the bedclothes close round him and fell 
asleep. 

He awoke the next morning with the vague but 
certain impression that something momentous had 
happened to him. But when he sought to analyse the 
source of this impression, his brain refused its office. 
He felt like one groping in dark places and colliding 
ever and anon with some unseen object of which he 
could guess neither the shape nor the meaning. That 
he had dreamed unpleasantly, he knew; but was at a loss 
to understand how the eff^ect of the dream could linger 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 205 

with such cruel persistence and the dream itself vanish 
so completely from his memory. If he could only 
remember what it was about, he might argue away some 
of the horror of it. His first thought was of Ayscough, 
but it was not of Ayscough that he had dreamed. No, 
it was of something that had happened to himself. 
With his mind still a prey to this gloomy curiosity 
he dressed himself and passed into the neighbouring 
room, catching sight of his study window through 
an open door as he moved across the passage. At 
once the mysterious sound of the previous night 
recurred to his memory, and following swiftly upon 
this came with crushing precision the substance of 
what he had dreamed and still bore like a load of 
sorrow and misgiving that weighed down his spirits 
and stayed them from expanding to the business and 
the duties of a new day. 

He could not remember the hour at which he had 
awoke to the sound of something fluttering against 
the window-pane. The queer fumbling of wings 
impressed him almost comically. What bird in the 
dead of a winter's night would seek admittance to a 
house in Hill Street ^ But while he tingled with 
wonder, the whirr of wings infinitely soft sounded in 
his ears. On the railing of his bedstead perched a 
dove, its tiny head motionless, its eyes peering 
solemnly at the man as he lay there. The beauty 
of its head was perceptible in a glimmer of light that 
shone about the little creature. Lord Lyttelton 
marvelled at the silken iridescence of the feathers; 
and the strangely human presence of the bird took 
the edge from his fear. He felt as if he ought to say 
something to propitiate its intentions. '* Angels have 



loS PERDITA 

wings," he kept on murmuring to himself, and the 
figure of the dove confused itself in his vision with 
that of a small angel in effigy. The shapely head and 
the mild radiance of the eyes suited the transformation. 
Then it seemed to Lyttelton that this little woman 
was crying, and that he was distressed at her grief. 
He begged and begged her to speak, to tell the cause 
of those tears. His entreaties seemed to augment her 
sorrow. At last in a thin voice which carried with it 
a silvery tone, as of enchanted bells, he heard her say, 
" You have not three more days to live." The whirr 
of wings sounded again in his ears. The thing was 
gone. Nor had he been conscious of any interruption 
to his night's repose. Only when he awoke, his spirits 
were weighted with the singular foreboding which he 
now traced to his dream. 

He did not suffer the occurrence to dislocate a 
single item in the programme of his day. An hour 
was spent with his manuscripts, another hour writing 
invitations to the Miss Amphlets, to Captain Wolseley 
and to some other friends to join him at Pit Place 
on the twenty-seventh of the month, two days hence. 
Taking his seat next Lord Shelburne in the House of 
Lords, he rose at an early period in the debate on the 
Address to deliver himself on the subject of Ireland. 
A well-modulated voice enhanced the effect of the 
vigorous and carefully chosen words in which he 
attacked the policy of the Government. 

*' Cast your eyes for a moment," said he, *' on the 
state of the Empire. America, that vast continent, 
with all its advantages to us as a commercial and 
maritime people — lost — for ever lost to us ; the West 
Indies abandoned ; Ireland ready to part from us. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 207 

Ireland, my lords, Is armed : and what is her language ? 
' Give us free trade and the free Constitution of 
England as it was originally, such as we hope it will 
remain, the best calculated of any in the world for the 
preservation of freedom.' " 

The rest of his speech was an eloquent plea for 
compromise with Ireland, and a denunciation of that 
*' chain of expedients " which, while it had oppressed 
the Irish people, had never quenched their spirit. He 
laid emphasis not only on the goodness but also on 
the wisdom of justice in a situation in which more 
than justice might be demanded and might have to 
be conceded. The doctrine of royal prerogative had 
been strained already to the point of bursting. The 
speaker impressed the House more favourably than 
the speech. Lord Hillsborough congratulated Lyttelton 
on his rhetorical powers and the care with which he 
had informed himself on matters of fact. As to the 
strain of cajolery mixed with threats by which the 
young peer had sought to sway the House, he 
counteracted whatever effect it might have had by a 
calm denial that the situation was anything like so 
grave as Lord Lyttelton had represented it, driving 
the young man to heated interruptions which cul- 
minated in his declaring that if they did not accept his 
proposals they would have to face " the dire alternative 
of the total separation of Ireland from Great Britain." 

What the House thought of this threat may be 
judged from the fact that the Marquis of Rockingham's 
amendment to the Address was lost by eighty-two 
votes to forty-one, Lord Lyttelton voting with the 
minority, and the Address was then agreed to without 
a division. 



2o8 PERDITA 

" Why do you look so depressed ? " said Hugh 
Fortescue the next day as he chanced upon his 
cousin sauntering in St. James's Park with the idleness 
of one who has never known what occupation means. 
" Is it because Hillsborough, the stupidest of your 
brother peers, paid you such fine compliments on your 
speech ? " 

Lyttelton smiled faintly. 

" No, 'twas not of that I was thinking " said he. 
" Those are things of yesterday. Hillsborough was 
wrong ; the majority who voted with him were 
wrong ; and I was right with my minority. They 
don't know Ireland as I do. But a Government which 
can lose America can do anything. I have done with 
politics, I was thinking of something entirely different 
when you came upon me. I was thinking " 

He glanced shyly at his cousin, whom he liked ; then 
linking his arm in his : 

" I was thinking of death," said he. 

Fortescue laughed. But when he had heard the 
story of Lyttelton's dream, something in the manner 
of the narrator conveyed to him a feeling of uneasiness. 

" No man has more thoroughly enjoyed doing 
wrong than I have," said Lyttelton, *' But I should 
not have enjoyed it so much if I believed in nothing. 
With me, sin has been conscientious, and I enjoyed 
the wrong thing not only for itself but also because it 
was wrong. Suppose it to be true that I have not 
more than three days to live 

'' You take the whole thing too seriously," interposed 
his cousin, 

" Join m.e at Pit Place to-morrow," said Lyttelton. 
" Then you shall see if I take it seriously." 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 209 

But Fortescue was engaged in town. He found an 
excuse however for calling at Hill Street the next 
morning, and was considerably relieved to find his 
cousin in good spirits and ready for a walk. Their 
way took them through a churchyard, and Lyttelton 
made merry over the graves. 

" Have you noticed," said he, " what a number of 
vulgar fellows die at five-and-thirty ? But you and 
I, who are gentlemen, shall live to a good old age." 

Fortescue expressed his satisfaction at the other's 
recovery from the gloom of yesterday. 

*' Oh yes," cried Lyttelton, " I think I have bilked 
the ghost." 

His cousin eyed him critically, but the frank ringing 
voice in which the jest was almost hurled at him 
disarmed all suspicion. What a rare person Lyttelton 
was : a brain and a temperament, with intermittent 
flashes of conscientious scruple that dismayed this 
man as much as the spectacle of his vices dismayed 
his friends. And how difi'erent were the estimates 
of him. One said he was destined either to be a 
Secretary of State or to finish his days in an asylum 
for lunatics ; another took his talent for painting so 
seriously as to predict for him European fame as an 
artist ; another called him charlatan and laughed 
openly at the solemnity with which, in his speech on 
the previous day, he had dwelt on his duty as an 
Englishman, as a Lord of Parliament, as a subject 
of his sovereign. And while these conflicting views 
passed rapidly through the head of Fortescue, his 
cousin was bidding him " adieu " in the exaggerated 
style of a Macarony. Fortescue laughed so much 
that Lord Lyttelton was persuaded to mimic a number 

H 



2IO PERDITA 

of gentlemen of their common acquaintance in their 
methods of taking departure ; Mr. Fitzgerald, Count 
Belgiojoso and others falling within the scope of his 
satirical imitations. The cousins parted at last without 
any salutation in an explosion of laughter. 



XX 

Young Sir John Lade was a constant visitor at the 
Robinsons' house, and on the evening of the Sunday- 
following Lyttelton's speech he took his seat at the 
card table for a game of quadrille. Mrs. Abington 
made the fourth, and the game was proceeding at aji 
easy pace without the enlivening influence of many 
surprises, when Count Belgiojoso entered the room. 
A fresh hand had just been dealt and Tom was 
impatient to hasten on the play. The gloom on the 
Imperial Ambassador's face irritated him, more par- 
ticularly as he anticipated that the visit meant an 
interruption to the game, but Belgiojoso moved slowly 
to a seat in the neighbourhood of Mary and bade 
them continue. It was not long however before 
a whispering on his side of the table confused Tom 
in his reckoning. He heard the name of Lyttelton, 
which made him still more impatient, and glancing 
with comic exasperation at the Count : 

" False matadore," cried he, " what of Lyttelton ? 
Surely he is not important enough to spoil our game." 

" He will no more spoil anybody's game," replied 
the Count, " for he is dead." 

The ladies looked up from their cards. 

" Dead ^ " cried Mrs. Abington sharply, as if she 
were uncertain whether she had heard aright. 

" Dead ? " echoed Mary incredulously. 



212 PERDITA 

The Count had just heard the news. Lyttelton 
had died suddenly at Pit Place, after eating a hearty 
supper in convivial company and spending the evening 
in a flow of spirits. 

*' What ailed him ? " said Mrs. Abington, shifting 
her cards as she asked the question. 

" Nothing ailed him," replied Belgiojoso. " His 
cousin who conveyed the news to me assures me he 
was in the best of health. But he had been warned 
by a ghost, or said he had, only a few days before." 

" And he had enjoyed a hearty supper ^ " said 
Mrs. Abington. 

" Poor Lyttelton," said Tom : ^' What are trumps ? " 

The game proceeded to a close without further 
interruption except for the calling of the cards. But 
in spite of Mrs. Abington's lively sallies and Tom's 
attempt to change the colour of the game by turning 
his coat inside out, the spirit of dulness was in the 
deals. Several persons had come in as the final score 
was counted, and Tom was only too glad to change 
from quadrille to faro. Soon a number of figures 
were bending over the oval green table, and little 
piles of coins were shining along its border marked 
out in coloured tape. Tom took the bank, Sir 
John Lade faced him as croupier, and the air rang 
with cries of " duinze le va, sept le va, Vune ■pour 
V autre ! " 

But Mary did not play. The day before had been 
her twenty-first birthday, and the company of Drury 
Lane had celebrated the occasion by a supper at which 
she had been the centre of congratulation. And 
while they made merry Lord Lyttelton had died. The 
thing was incredible ! But she took refuge from the 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 213 

shock produced by the fact in an enquiry into the 
circumstances, and sat listening to Belgiojoso's 'account 
of Lord Lyttelton's dream, made all the more melan- 
choly for the neighbourhood of the gaming table. 
The Count spoke cynically of this dream : either it 
was the invention of Fortescue or of Lyttelton him- 
self, who wished to end his life by a supreme jest which 
should perplex posterity for ever. He inclined to 
assume the latter alternative, which accorded with the 
whimsical nature of the young man. But why should 
he want to take his own life .? That was difficult, 
almost impossible to determine. Mary was certain 
that the dream was no fabrication, but she wanted to 
know more of the circumstances. As the evening 
wore on, Lyttelton's death became the absorbing topic 
of conversation. Other accounts were provided, and 
served still further to obscure the truth. Some said 
the mysterious warning had been conveyed by a female 
figure which appeared at the foot of his bed, and that 
the dove was a flight of imagination which had crept 
into the original account. Others ridiculed the whole 
story, and explained the suddenness of the event by 
an apoplectic seizure. On retiring to bed Lyttelton 
had ordered his valet to mix some rhubarb, and cursed 
the fellow out of the room for bringing it to him 
without a spoon. In little more than a minute the 
man had returned to find his master fallen back 
motionless in the bed. His body was to lie in state 
at Hagley, the place from whose sombre memories he 
had fled for that last gathering of wild associates. 
From the subject of his death the conversation veered 
to the terms of his will. How would his discarded 
wife fare ^ Who was to reign at Hagley ^ 



214 PERDITA 

By the end of the evening Tom was boisterous, 
for he had won large sums at play ; but Mary did not 
respond to his exhilarated speeches, and she was glad 
when he repaired to the neighbouring premises in 
Covent Garden where he lodged. Lyttelton's death, 
which affected him so little, troubled her all the more 
for the neighbourhood of the husband who was so 
indifferent to his own honour. When she was alone, 
she was surprised to find herself still weighed down 
by an oppression for which she could not easily 
account. Grief for Lyttelton's death could not be 
its origin, and yet she felt almost afraid of the punish- 
ment which had overtaken him. For as a punishment 
she regarded his sudden dissolution. Any other ex- 
planation was too complicated. But a short time 
before, he had written to her an admission that in 
his judgment of her talents at least he had erred. She 
wished now that she had answered the letter. The 
gaiety of her company on this Sunday night rose up 
against her as a reproach against the memory of the 
dead man, now that they were gone and she was 
left to her reflexions. 

His was a face difficult to imagine in the cold, 
passionless immobility of death, and as she lay alone 
in the silent hours of the night, her memory of him, 
as he was — audacious, volatile, proud in' spirit — clashed 
in dismaying vehemence with her attempt to picture 
him locked in the narrow confines of a coffin, with 
set features into which the flickering light of many 
candles could never more conjure the life. All her 
slumbering instinct for piety was awakened by the 
tragic news of his death — the death of one who had 
sought to identify her with the dark passions of a 




From a mezzotint engraving by Charles Townley, after tlie picture by R. Cosway, R. A. 
THOMAS LORD LYTTELTON. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 215 

nature striving brilliantly towards high civic achieve- 
ment. That she had withheld him from the com- 
mission of another sin in that career of debauchery 
was no merit. For, as she recognised, temptation, 
so far as Lyttelton was concerned, had never even 
brushed her with the hem of its garment. But she 
sighed as she thought of Grandmamma Elizabeth and 
the good resolutions which in that short visit had 
been made and so heedlessly forgotten in the vortex of 
her theatrical career. She could not justify to herself 
the substitution of quadrille and faro for the observa- 
tion of religious duties, and then — in a sudden en- 
lightenment, as it were — the sense of shame which 
overcame her confused itself with a feeling of gratitude 
towards Mr. Sheridan. He had visited her several 
times in her new establishment, and without expressing 
any opinion had left her on each occasion with a 
feeling of misgiving, as if he had silently conveyed 
to her through that wistful look which he knew so 
well how to bring into his eyes, his own solicitude 
for her safety in the midst of her luxurious sur- 
roundings. 

Suppose Mr. Sheridan to find himself hurried into 
unsuspected difficulties by the discovery of a passion 
for her. She blushed at the thought, and was angry 
with herself for letting it come so near. Luckily Mr. 
Sheridan loved his young wife. Almost with the 
sadness of resignation Mary was thankful that this 
was so, and that he would never know to what perilous 
depths he had stirred her own emotions by the 
assiduous chivalry of his conduct. But she was 
humiliated in the thought that her contempt for Lord 
Lyttelton had been unduly exaggerated. Of politics 



2i6 PERDITA 

she knew little, and she was not disposed to dispute 
his pre-eminence in this field of ambition. There was 
all the difference between the public importance of 
a rising actress and that of a rising statesman. It 
was the knowledge of his superiority in this regard 
that had made her place an undue emphasis on his 
inferiority as a person in private life. The suddenness 
of his death, above all, the supernatural circumstances 
associated with it, took all the venom from her 
memory of his persecution. His chances of dis- 
tinguishing himself in the eyes of his King and his 
country, brilliant as they had been, were nipped in 
the bud of promise. Hers were blossoming into 
flower. 

She had not played Perdita half a dozen times, and 
already their Majesties had commanded a performance 
of " A Winter's Tale " for the Friday in the following 
week. The part was familiar enough to her ; it was 
brought into all the greater prominence by the version 
of Garrick, which omitted all the earlier scenes in the 
play and started with the arrival of Sicily's king in 
Bohemia after the lapse of sixteen years in which his 
daughter has grown up in the disguise of a shepherdess. 
Mary had already captivated the critics by the in- 
voluntary sweetness of her impersonation. But how 
would she bear the ordeal of playing before the royal 
family ? That the publicity of her fame touched her, 
was evident in the gasp of mingled fear and satisfac- 
tion which escaped her when first she saw the play- 
bill announcing the royal command and her own name 
in the part of Perdita. For a moment her thoughts 
sprang back to the days when her ambitions had been 
no more than the unsubstantial dream of a girl. But 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 217 

at the swift recognition that she had passed into the 
reality of an accomplished actress, the implied compli- 
ment took less imposing shape. She was no longer 
the amateur, reciting a few passages to a theatrical 
manager as if her very soul depended on the favour 
of his judgment. As she lay thinking of the approach- 
ing royal performance, she grew proud in the reflexion 
that although only yesterday she had celebrated her 
twenty-first birthday she had already been chosen to 
interpret the work of Wycherley, Dryden, and 
Shakespeare ; and that in the history of the perfor- 
mance of their dramas her name was assured of a 
place. This was indeed a legitimate source of satisfac- 
tion ; all else idleness and vanity. After all, what was 
it to play before the King, but a social gratification .'' 
She wished her brother were still in London, that she 
might have tested his abhorrence of the stage by an 
invitation to be in the theatre on this occasion of her 
honour. Her mother had said nothing, but it was 
easy to see that she felt a pleasure which she was 
naturally loath to express. Mary laughed to herself 
as she thought of the servility that might be expected 
from Mr. Harris were she to acquaint him of the 
royal patronage. Perhaps he had already read of it 
in the papers. 

But even as her fancy strayed thus lightly along 
the paths of frivolous conjecture, the image of her 
dead persecutor thrust itself once more with ugly 
importunity into her meditations. Before she fell 
asleep, some lines recurred to her memory, which she 
had not recited since she was a little child. They 
were called " The Heavy Hours." The good father 
who had written them, building a battlement of fame 



21 8 PERDITA 

about the name of Lyttelton, the wicked son who 
had cast bricks of infamy at his own father's structure, 
were both dead. Mary sighed and turned lazily in 
her bed, satisfied and perplexed at the luxury of 
surviving them. 



XXI 

George Augustus Frederick, Prince of Wales, 
leaned on the ledge of the stage box which he occupied 
in Drury Lane Theatre on the evening of the third 
of December, and followed the fortunes of Perdita 
with the closest attention. In those days the " stage " ^ 
box was so called from its position, not near but upon 
the stage itself, which escaped for an ample distance 
beyond the proscenium into the body of the auditorium. 
With His Royal Highness was his brother Frederick, 
Bishop of Osnaburgh, to whom he was senior by a 
year. The other children of their Majesties were not 
old enough to attend the performance with profit to 
themselves, and had been left in the royal nursery. But 
more than seventeen years had passed since the Prince 
had been born, and his taste and talent for literature 
and the arts were admitted even by the tutors who 
had not known how to curb his rebellious spirit. 
His brother had been a bishop ever since he had been 
a baby of six months old, and both the young gentlemen 
wore their high dignities with spirited indifference 
to the responsibilities with which a vulgar conception 
of their offices credited them. 

In a box opposite the young Princes were their 
Majesties. The Queen was attended by Lady Holder- 
nesse. Miss Vernon, Miss Gunning and the Marquis of 
Carmarthen. The King was attended by the Duke 

219 



2 20 PERDITA 

of Northumberland, the Earls of Denbigh, Hertford, 
Waldegrave and the Marquis of Lothian. The solemn 
deportment of the occupants of this box was in marked 
contrast with the careless zest in the performance 
displayed by the Prince of Wales. In fact the King 
looked bored, the Queen looked worried, but the 
Heir- apparent wore an enraptured air ; and not content 
with leaning from the box in a manner as unconcerned 
as it was conspicuous, indulged from time to time 
in comments of enthusiastic approbation that made 
even his brother pluck him bashfully by the sleeve 
to recall him to the imprudence of his conduct. 

" I tell thee, Fred, she's ravishing, positively ravish- 
ing ! " cried the Prince, annoyed at the interruption of 
his brother, in a voice so high that it not only reached 
the ears of the gentlemen in attendance in the box, but 
also those of Mary herself. The gentlemen tittered, 
and even the young Bishop could not withhold a 
smile. He was anxious not to excite the indignation 
of his papa and mamma, but brother George was 
irresistible. Nothing could damp the buoyancy of his 
spirits when they were up, and he was in a state of 
ripe rebellion against the counsels and lectures of tutors 
and preceptors and sub-preceptors by whom he had 
been surrounded, with the most arbitrary precaution, 
by his father ever since he had been a child. 

Mary was all the more disconcerted by the observa- 
tion which she had overheard, because in the Green 
Room a few minutes before, she had been rallied on 
her beauty by Mr. Smith, who performed the part 
of Leontes. " By Jove, Mrs. Robinson," he had ex- 
claimed, "you will make a conquest of the Prince ; 
for to-night you look handsomer than ever ! " She 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 221 

had laughed aside the compHment, and now from the 
lips of the Prince himself had come the involuntary- 
tribute that could not be ignored. 

" O Lady Fortune, stand you auspicious ! " she 
whispered, half amused, half frightened at the greater 
difficulty of saying her lines occasioned by the Prince's 
unguarded utterance. She knew that the words were 
coming with mechanical accuracy from her lips, but 
she could not give herself up to their meaning. Once 
she glanced at the box and saw the Prince with raised 
finger, hanging on the rhythm of the lines like the 
conductor of an opera, his face slightly flushed and 
his eyes fixed on her movements in a stare of 
extravagant ecstasy. In the intervals between her ' 
appearances on the stage she was entertained by the 
conversation of young Lord Maiden, to whom she 
had been introduced by the son of Mr. Ford who 
with Lacy and Sheridan shared possession of the 
theatre. Maiden was a gay sprig of juvenile nobility, 
and stayed in the wings of the theatre throughout 
the performance. The Prince observed him in con- 
versation with Perdita, and frequently spoke to a 
gentleman in waiting in the box in a way that left 
little doubt that Mary was the subject of His Royal 
Highness's encomium ; and it was the most comical 
sight imaginable to see the Bishop preserve an im- 
perturbable gravity on his fox-like face as he now 
sat in the front of the box, ostensibly absorbed in 
the play and innocent of the high spirits which reigned 
among the others. The festival of the lads and lasses 
dancing about the stage and buying ribbons and gloves 
at the door of the shepherd's cottage was more than 
matched in the intensity of its mirth by the festival 



222 PERDITA 

of wit and ribaldry within this stage box. It was as 
if by the levity of their conduct these gentlemen sought 
to direct public attention to the difference between the 
duUj good King, so obedient to the commands of his 
clever domineering mother, and the naughty, spirited 
Prince so disobedient to anything like paternal authority, 
so nimble in evading any influence directed at him 
from that quarter in anything less impressive than 
the shape of a royal command. 

Neither the King nor the Queen thought much of 
the performance. George the Third disliked Shake- 
speare ; the poetry sounded high-strained, fantastic, 
often unintelligible to the simple-minded man whose 
affections were jocularly supposed to be centred in a 
leg of mutton and his wife, and whose mental 
sympathies were no less comically restricted. So far 
as he took the trouble to judge Mary as an actress, 
he thought her feeble and exasperatingly affected, and 
towards the end of the performance it was clear from 
the unsteady blinking in the royal eyes that he was 
tired and eager to go to bed. Queen Charlotte liked 
music and dancing ; she could talk shrewdly of books, 
but she had no profound sense of literature, and she 
was worried about one of the children who had a 
cold. At this time the King was litde over forty, 
and his consort was several years younger ; but the 
pall of domestic virtue, unrelieved by the intermixture 
either of high culture or of high intellectual activity, 
had already gathered in close folds about the royal 
household. They had too many children and too 
few fires in the corridors of Buckingham House to 
make them really sociable people. 

As the curtain fell upon the curtsies of the per- 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 223 

formers on this evening the royal visitors condescended 
to bow. Mary glanced at the stage box, and the Prince 
looked at her with so little attempt to conceal the 
passion that rose within him at the sight of her beauty 
that she blushed. The amorous encounter of such 
eyes, meeting as it were in a cross-fire, was described 
by the poet Byron little more than a quarter of a 
century later ; but the subject of the description is 
very much older. As the curtain shut the captivating ^ 
vision of Perdita from the Prince's view he sighed and 
inclined his head once more. When she walked to her 
chair which was waiting to carry her home, Mary met 
the royal family crossing the stage on their way out 
of the theatre. Again the Prince bowed, not as a 
courtier performing an act of ceremony, but with the 
solemnity of a pagan boy impressed to the verge of 
ecstasy at the overwhelming beauty of a sunrise. 

The supper party at Mrs. Robinson's was more 
than usually gay on that evening, and the hostess 
was loaded with compliments. The prophecy of the 
actor known for his courtliness among the company 
as " Gentleman " Smith had been fulfilled ; but Mary's 
guests expressed their recognition of the achievement 
in loud and unrestrained admiration of the young Heir- 
apparent, He was the most accomplished prince in 
Europe ; he could sing the nightingale to shame, and 
outdistance his master Crosdill on the violoncello ; 
his French accent was delicious, so was his Italian. 
His was a nature all romance and poetry, and it was 
darkly hinted that the brilliant youth was a sharp 
thorn in the side of his dull disciplinarian papa, with 
his fads for teaching his eldest sons how to till land, 
how to sow it with corn, which they had to reap and 



2 24 PERDITA 

thrash and see ground to flour and made into bread. 
Both young men had other and wilder oats to sow, 
and were almost as insensible to the claims of the 
royal prerogative as their rebellious colonist cousins 
across the sea. 

It was Mr. Fox who provided the company with 
the liveliest sallies on this subject. The King hated 
him for that growing sympathy with the people which 
had culminated in a violent attack on His Majesty 
in the House of Commons on the same day that 
Lord Lyttelton had championed the grievances of 
Ireland in the other House. Moreover, he had 
opposed the Royal Marriages Bill by which His 
Majesty had marked his displeasure at the secret 
marriage of his brother the Duke of Cumberland, 
and insisted on the King's consent as necessary to 
establish the validity of all marriages in the Royal 
Family, For different reasons the political spirit of 
Fox, the independent and reckless character of the 
young heir to the throne, and the bitter enmity of 
the Duke of Cumberland and his Duchess for the 
King were all contributing at this time to consolidate 
the forces of opposition to the royal politics. 

But while Fox's dark eyes sparkled with wine and 
lent rapturous support to these glowing accounts of 
the young Prince's character at Mrs. Robinson's supper 
party, the Prince himself was a subject of the gravest 
concern to the gentlemen who waited upon him. He 
wanted at once to visit the adorable Perdita, that night, 
that hour, that very minute. His language was no 
less extravagant than the situation which provoked it. 
As he was driven to Buckingham House his talk was 
of the moon and the stars, and it was as much as 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 225 

those in attendance could contrive, to preserve a 
solemn face. Everything pointed to the folly of His 
Royal Highness pursuing such a suddenly conceived 
whim, with consequences which could not be measured 
but were bound to be deeply serious. With difficulty 
he was persuaded at last to allow his royal parents 
to go to bed before starting on his rash expedition ; 
and in the interval which elapsed in the process, his 
brain obtained sufficient mastery over his passion to 
see the wisdom of employing the services of a 
messenger to break the fall of these emotions upon 
the unsuspecting heart of the more than divine lady. 
A gentleman was at once despatched in search of Lord 
Maiden with instructions on finding him to bring 
him post haste to the Prince's apartment. A couple 
of hours passed before Maiden appeared. The Prince 
was in a high state of disorder and had threatened 
again and again to leave Buckingham House in disguise 
and visit the lovely Perdita that night. The art of 
assuming disguise on an amorous expedition ran in 
that family, for it was not long since the Duke of 
Cumberland, this young man's uncle, had donned a 
brownish wig coming low on the forehead, a blue and 
white flannel waistcoat and a light drab coat with a 
handkerchief round his neck, in order to pursue Lady 
Grosvenor, and had actually taken up his residence 
in one of the nearest public houses that he might be 
near her. Where the uncle had succeeded, why should 
the nephew fail ? Some time was spent in discussing 
a suitable disguise, and brandy and water were ordered 
to add a touch of joviality to good counsel. The 
impatience of the Prince was again rising beyond the 
bounds of control, when Lord Maiden was admitted 

15 



226 PERDITA 

to hi^ apartment, and at the request of his Royal 
Highness the other gentlemen retired. 

" Maiden, I'm undone. My brain is on fire ! " cried 
the Prince as he flung himself upon a sofa. Lord 
Maiden smiled with bland solicitude. He was the 
Prince's senior by five years, and this was not the 
first occasion on which his tact and diplomacy had been 
exercised in the skilful conduct of a delicate crisis 
in the Prince's life. When he had heard a perfervid 
account of the raptures of that evening and the 
suspense which succeeded them, he urged his young 
master to use the utmost circumspection. But the 
Prince raged. 

'* I tell you," said he, " I will not wait. I have 
been cooped up long enough, and I burn with im- 
patience for this adventure. You know all about this 
lady. Tell me quickly." 

" She has a husband," Maiden began in a tentative 
voice. 

" Shoot him for me," cried the Prince. 

" There is no need," added his adviser quickly. 
" If your Royal Highness will but use a little delibera- 
tion and- " 

" Talk not to me of deliberation, Maiden. I tell 
you I am mad as Hercules. 'Tis past one o'clock 
already. Come, let us go together now. You know 
where she lives. You can gain access to her ; bribe 
her men — what you will — but this waiting kills me." 

He grasped eagerly at a glass. Lord Maiden 
hastened to fill it with brandy. When the Prince had 
drunk, he took him by the arm and led him to the 
window, from which they could see the guard in the 
courtyard below. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 227 

*' You cannot go to-night. The guard would be 
bound to observe our departure," said he. " And 
the King " 

At the mention of his father, George stamped with 
impatience, but again Lord Maiden's gentle pressure 
on his arm restrained him from the angry outburst 
that rose to his lips. 

"Do you remember," said Maiden, " how on another 
occasion His Majesty commanded you to a game of 
chess on the evening and at the very hour when I 
was about to conduct you to a lady's apartments .'' To 
be intercepted a second time would be foolish." 

The Prince smiled stupidly enough to enable Maiden 
to conclude that the brandy, if it had not warped his 
intentions, had at least induced a benevolent disposition 
towards his counsellor. 

" Tell me, Maiden," said he in a voice from which 
the peevish note disappeared as he proceeded. " How 
does she seem when you speak to her ? Her breath 
is like the perfumes of Araby, is it not ? Her teeth — - 
to call them pearls is to belittle their beauty. Her 
voice is like the whisper of distant water. As I 
watched you speak with her I wished away a kingdom." 

" How can I better your description ^ " said the 
man of twenty-two, gazing with a kind of desperate 
compassion at the boy of seventeen. " You should 
set this down on paper." 

" Oh, you would put me to school like the others," 
cried the Prince petulantly. " But I have had enough 
of versifying. Majendie taught me to write elegiacs, 
but this is no case for schoolboy exercises. I have 
read more than enough of love. You should be my 
Ovid in the practice. |I want to strike the moon 



22 8 PERDITA 

with my head, to kill an army of suitors, to follow 
her to the other end of the world. Come, lead the 
way." 

Maiden led him in silence to an escritoire, tore a 
sheet of the royal paper, and put a pen in his hand. 

" Write," was all he said. 

The Prince looked blankly at him. 

" Words fail me," he cried. 

" Think yourself in her presence, think yourself — 
Florizelj'' said Maiden, suddenly inspired. The pen 
slipped rapidly over the sheet. Maiden was at his 
shoulder as the Prince wrote. But at the first scratch 
of a signature the nobleman jerked his arm. 

" How now } " cried the Prince with an oath. 

" To sign George, Prince of Wales, were to kill 
romance at a stroke of the pen. As Perdita, she 
made her conquest. I would have you sign this 
royal proclamation Florizel. Leave the rest to me." 

" Florizel," wrote the Prince with a flourish that 
covered half the page. " And you will take this to 
her ? " said he, handing the note across the table. 
Lord Maiden bowed and placed it in his bosom pocket. 
Scarcely waiting for the Prince's thanks he took his 
departure. 

George Frederick Augustus sat for a few minutes 
in his chair with half-closed eyes. Once more the 
picture of Mary Robinson floated before his vision, 
a shepherdess divinely fair with flowers on her head 
and eyes like stars. 

'' Perdita," he murmured to himself, as if intoxicated 
with the music of the syllables, and again, " Perdita." 
Then he rang a bell for his attendant to put him to 
bed. 



XXII 

Lord Malden congratulated himself upon the happy- 
issue to his sudden and precarious interview. A 
night's repose would dim the splendour of the Prince's 
vision. There was no reason for supposing that his 
fancy would be chained by the mere memory of a 
pretty and accomplished actress. Most likely another 
maid-of-honour would set eyes at the Heir-apparent, 
and so long as his predilections could be kept moving, 
Maiden regarded the situation as comparatively free 
from danger. In the meanwhile, for the sake of 
precaution, he informed General Lake and Colonel 
Hulse, who superintended the Prince's hours of re- 
creation, that the Prince relied upon him to establish 
a correspondence with a lady on the stage. It was 
hoped, of course, by all three gentlemen that the 
matter would expire altogether in the cold light of 
the next day following upon such sudden enchantment. 
But in any case, the strictest secrecy must be pre- 
served. The rumour of an earlier intrigue some months 
before had reached the Queen's ears when matters were 
not yet ripe for execution, although nobody could say 
where the leakage had occurred, and the result had been 
an interview with her son in which she had not spared 
him or shown the slightest hesitation in tackling a 
subject delicate and difficult enough for any mother, 
and more than ordinarily so for a queen. United 

229 



230 PERDITA 

by the firm conviction that this new infatuation, if 
such it were to prove, must be hermetically sealed 
from all possible sources of access to the royal parents, 
the three gentlemen were at liberty to indulge amongst 
themselves an unfeigned delight in the affair. Maiden's 
description of the Prince's heroics was immensely en- 
tertaining, and it was agreed that the young man's 
rhapsodical speeches were in the finest taste and 
showed a liberal and gallant spirit which was of the 
highest promise for the future occupant of a throne. 

Maiden kept the Prince's letter in his pocket all 
Saturday and Sunday : if, as he hoped, the Prince 
thought no more of the matter, he would add it to 
his collection of private manuscripts ; some day 
history should be enriched by its discovery ; in the 
meanwhile he pursued the policy of masterly inactivity. 
But an urgent message from General Lake summoned 
him into the Prince's presence on Monday morning. 

" Well, Maiden .? " said the young man, as if no 
more than a moment's interruption had intervened 
between their conversation on the previous Saturday 
and now. " What does she say ^ Why have you 
not come sooner.'' Were the wings of her message 
tipped with lead rather than with gold, that you stand 
abashed ? " 

Lord Maiden coughed, glanced uneasily from the 
buckles that shone on his royal master's shoes to the 
dreamy languor in his eyes. 

" Is your Royal Highness still assured of the wisdom 
of this step .f* " he asked. 

" To Mesopotamia with your wisdom," cried the 
Prince, striding angrily about the room. " What had 
Paris to do with wisdom when he wooed Helen ? 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 231 

Have you waited till now to tell me this ? But I 
will go myself. Give me back the letter." 

'* I have it not with me," said Maiden quietly. 

" Dog and liar, I will have the coat stripped from 
your back and the pockets searched here and now." 

" You will find nothing." 

The Prince glanced furiously at him, and, satisfied 
that he was speaking truth, began to hum loudly a tune 
from an Italian opera. 

" Listen," said Maiden. " If it is your wish, I 
will go now to this Perdita and take the letter, but I 
could not do it earlier. Many a mind changes between 
a Saturday and a Monday. When last I saw you, your 
brain was in a fever. I know what these things 
mean. With all respect to your Royal Highness, I 
have acted as a friend." 

The cajolery of his manner softened the Prince. 

" 'Twas not the brain. Maiden, but the heart that 
was on fire ; and still it burns and burns. Why am 
I surrounded by men of science who plague me with 
their cursed terminology ? Just now Lake wanted me 
to see a surgeon to have myself examined. Could 
Paris have been cured of his love for Helen by a 
dose of rhubarb ^ " 

" Or Florizel of his love for Perdita by the mud- 
baths of Albano ^ No," continued Maiden, catching 
with smooth dexterity at the Prince's airy rhetorical 
style, *' I will be Cupid's messenger," and he placed 
a hand upon his heart as he bowed. 

"Good Maiden," cried the youth, *' Aye, Cupid's 
messenger. But borrow Mercury's sandals and fly to 
my Perdita." 

Maiden skipped, as if the royal thought itself were 



232 



PERDITA 



enough to add wings to his shoes. The comical 
picture recalled the nimble graces of a favourite dancer 
to the Prince of Wales, and he laughed exuberantly 
as his visitor disappeared with agility from the room. 

The last morning visitor had taken leave of Mary 
when Lord Maiden reached her house in Covent Garden. 
So silent were his footsteps that she did not become aware 
of his presence until he stood in her room and had 
had time to note the look of private fatigue on her 
face, the look of one tired by too much company into 
an unfamiliar satisfaction in solitude. The formality 
of his greeting was no sooner accomplished than 
curiosity stole into her eyes at his air of preoccupied 
embarrassment and dispelled the fine dust of animal 
fatigue that had dimmed their lustre on his entrance. 

"Forgive me, Madam " he began, and then 

stopped as if seized by a sudden incapacity for articu- 
lation. She looked coldly mistrustful, and there was 
as much disdain as courtesy in her manner of motioning 
him to a chair. 

" Apology must be the herald to the message I bear 
you," he began again ; and again he was so discon- 
certed by her imperturbable gravity that he knew not 
how to proceed. 

Mary was amused, perplexed, unexpectedly enter- 
tained. He looked uneasily round the room, and the 
sight of his own reflection in a neighbouring mirror, 
which also doubled the exquisite repose of the lady, 
dismayed him anew. The merriment swimming un- 
bidden at the corners of her lips recalled his self- 
possession. 

"I hope you will pardon me, Madam," said he, 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 22,2> 

*' that you will mention to nobody what I am about 
to communicate. I beg you earnestly to consider the 
peculiar delicacy of my situation, and then to act as 
you think proper." 

" I can only request you, my lord, to be more 
explicit." 

He appeared to be weighing something imponderable, 
to be wrestling with a difficulty of unfathomable depths. 
After a few moments he tremblingly drew a small 
letter from his pocket. Its cover bore the name 
" Perdita " in an unfamiliar hand. Mary smiled and 
looked queerly at him from beneath drooping eyelids 
as she took the billet. 

" Well, my lord, and what does this mean ^. " said 
she, when she had glanced hastily at the contents. 

" Can you not guess the writer ? " said Lord 
Maiden. 

'* Perhaps yourself," she answered without a smile. 

" Upon my honour, no. I should not have dared 
so to address you on so short an acquaintance." 

" From whom then does this letter come } " 

He rose and in a gesture conveyed to her the 
helplessness with which he was beset. 

" Would that I had not undertaken to deliver it," 
he cried, " to be thus constrained to forfeit your good 
opinion ; to figure as the wind blowing a dart from 
Cupid's quiver. Could you but picture the humiliation 
of such an office ! And yet " 

" And yet, my lord ^. " 

" I could not refuse, for this letter is from the 
Prince of Wales." 

Now that he had shaken the burden of his communi- 
cation from him, he looked keenly at her to observe 



234 PERDITA 

its effect. In the heightened arching of her eyebrows 
he read astonishment ; in her eyes a whirlwind of 
doubt and agitation. She placed the letter carelessly 
on a table to which his eyes followed it. She observed 
his solicitude, and wondered whether or no it was 
counterfeit. 

'* You satisfy me of the sincerity of your intentions, 
my lord," she said ambiguously. " The letter is a 
graceful compliment to Perdita which she will know 
how to appreciate at its just value. The sentiments 
are prettily expressed. Your lordship is aware that 
an actress is peculiarly well fitted to decide upon the 
merits of these compositions." 

Lord Maiden bowed and took his leave. It was 
only too clear that he had not satisfied her that the 
message was genuine, and to protest at such a stage 
would have been ill-advised. 

As soon as he was gone Mary snatched the letter 
from the table, read it, read it again, held the paper 
to the light. If this was indeed a letter from the 
Prince of Wales, why did it lack the royal super- 
scription ? Her finger ran along the edge of the 
paper. On one side it was rough. Then the sheet 
had been torn. It was a clever artifice to try and 
make her believe that royal prudence was the cause of 
the laceration. Lord Maiden was testing the propriety 
of her conduct for his own ends. But the melting 
tenderness in. the Prince's eyes when they had met 
hers at the close of the performance was quick in her 
memory. How if Lord Maiden's asseveration were 
true ? 

If it was true, was it not an insult to address her 
thus under a feigned name on a torn sheet of paper ? 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 235 

Prudence ? Was there prudence in his rapturous 
gaze ? The name of Florizel meant nothing outside 
the play in which she figured as Perdita. Perhaps 
it was the momentary inspiration of a boy in love 
with literature. Her answer, if she gave any, must 
be in the name of the shepherdess. But why pursue 
her far from the territory of this fabled Bohemia into 
the privacy of her house in Covent Garden ^ And the 
contents of the billet, brief as they were, struck a note 
perceptibly out of tune with the theatrical music of the 
assumed names. There was in those few words some- 
thing of awkwardness and of intimacy too, which, as 
it were, left wet the crude paint of the emotions under 
stress of which the note had been written. 

George Prince in the meanwhile is all sickness and 
sorrow at Lord Maiden's account of his interview. 
A couple of days later the trusted messenger carries in 
his face no more hope than before ; he has been to a 
card party at Mrs. Robinson's and has sung his master's 
praises all the evening, in a manner artless enough 
to convince any woman less obstinately suspicious, that 
a personal knowledge of his subject could alone enable 
him to speak in such precise terms ; and with an 
intention artful enough to spur the curiosity of any 
woman less sophisticated than this stage shepherdess. 
But she had listened with a cool gravity that still 
implied disbelief, if not absolute indifference. 

" I must, I will see her," cries the Prince, and 
once again he submits to Lord Maiden's counsel to 
write ; but only on condition that Maiden shall bid 
her go that night to Covent Garden Theatre where 
an oratorio of the late Mr. Handel is to be performed, 
and where the Prince will convince her by some signal 



236 PERDITA 

that her scepticism is ill-founded. Mary assents to 
the proposal, but she disconcerts the proposer again by 
inviting her husband in his presence to accompany her. 
On their entering the balcony box she swiftly 
becomes aware that the Prince and his brother the 
Bishop are talking of her. The Prince cannot take 
his eyes from her direction even while he is engaged 
in conversation. Happily for her peace of mind the 
merry commotion of Mr. Handel's choruses so be- 
wilders Tom that he sits staring about him, without 
perceiving either the progress of the story in " Alex- 
ander's Feast " or that of the Prince's unguarded 
behaviour. But several people in the pit glance from 
the royal box to where Mary is seated, and back again. 
George Frederick Augustus passes a hand across his 
forehead in a gesture of despair, waving the programme 
of the oratorio before him as if to fan himself. A 
moment later his hand moves across the ledge of the 
box as if in the act of writing, and on one of the gentle- 
men in waiting bringing him a glass of water, he 
takes it, raises it to his lips, pauses a moment, and then 
gazes deliberately in Mary's direction before drinking. 
Will this oratorio never come to a close, Mary wonders ? 
Dimly she realises that it is all about Alexander the 
Great for whom, as Statira, she first died nearly a year 
ago on the stage of Drury Lane Theatre ; but although 
her eyes read the words of Dryden's poem in the 
programme, her mind grasps nothing of their meaning. 
Whoever he may be in that box, whether Florizel or 
the Prince of Wales, he is her lover : no clever cynic 
like Lyttelton, no crazy Irishman with an attitude 
towards all women which reflects itself as in a mirror 
in her own artless description of it as " beautifully 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 237 

interesting," but a youth in the first glow of manly 
folly, splendid no less in the effrontery of his address 
than in the comeliness of his person, knocking down 
the barriers of decorum and court etiquette with the 
careless joy of a child at a game of skittles. 

Her thoughts between that night and the next 
morning were a confusion of doubt and wondering 
perplexity ; doubt of her own powers to withstand the 
tide of allurement that was sweeping her along, per- 
plexity at the nature of what hidden consequences 
lay in wait for her. There were moments in which 
it seemed to her that her life, which had been dark 
enough hitherto in spite of its recent splendour, was 
opening out into broad plains of sun-steeped serenity. 
And there were moments when she fancied herself the 
victim of some imp of Satan, who was deluding her 
through the fable of Florizel and Perdita into the 
indulgence of a fantastic conviction that she was to 
know a happiness of which she had thought herself 
robbed for ever. Through her brain poured the names 
of kings and queens in history and in the dramas in 
which she had acted : a confused stream, as of many 
coloured lights converging to a point of dazzling 
brilliance. 

It was late the next morning when she rang for 
her chocolate. As she unfolded the printed sheet 
for the day, her eyes rested on an account of the last 
night's performance which summoned all the blood 
into her cheeks. With an audacity common enough 
in journalists of that day, and replaced by a servile 
reticence masking itself under the name of" good taste " 
in our own, the writer satirised the Prince's conduct 
during the progress of the oratorio. After a panegyric 



238 PERDITA 

on His Royal Highness's accomplished taste in litera- 
ture, it was stated that he showed more than usual 
enthusiasm for one passage of Dryden's poem, actually 
going so far as to act the scene described, and to 
convey, in a most graceful manner his vivid sympathy 
with the sentiments expressed. The following lines 
were then quoted : 

The Prince, unable to conceal his pain, 

Gazed on the fair 

Who caused his care, 
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again. 

As she read this account all the glamour melted 
from what she had felt, and in its place she became 
conscious of an abiding sense of humiliation. Already, 
then, she was the sport of public satire, a butt for the 
calumny of the paid writer seeking a scrap of scandal 
with which to add piquancy to the flavour of a lady's 
chocolate. Her name had not been mentioned in the 
article, but she could draw little solace from the 
omission. People would guess ; by the malice of 
their whispers her rivals on the stage would supply 
any gap in a wall of scandal. Flinging the sheet from 
her she stamped her foot angrily and vowed she 
would have no more to do with the matter. She 
would teach this young Prince a lesson in that very 
subject of love which he so openly preferred to politics. 
When her indignation had abated, she saw much 
humour in the situation. She was an actress at whom 
the Heir-apparent had had the audacity to make 
eyes in public. That was the A B C of the matter. 
Very well, she would accept the unflattering crudity 
of such an exposition. As an actress she would deny 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 239 

him access to her, sport with his emotions, raise his 
hopes, dash them to earth again, ridicule him, abuse 
him, make scenes with him, remind him of his duty 
to his country, to his father, to his King. As Perdita 
she had been wooed by him ; but was her sympathy 
with the methods of the adventurous daredevil Fidelia 
anything less radical because she had also impersonated 
the soft shepherdess on a paid salary in a theatre ? 

And the end ? What did she care about the end ? 
Where was the use of struggling away from her 
destiny ? Perhaps she would come out as the stainless 
Lady in Milton's " Comus." Or else she would bring 
this young Alexander to his knees. Taking up the 
programme of the oratorio from her table she searched 
in the printed poem for the passage which the satirist 
had quoted to serve his unhandsome purpose. How 
did it end ? She smiled as she read the lines : 

At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 



XXIII 

About the time when Mary had made her first appear- 
ance on the stage, the King had been much disturbed 
by the discovery that his eldest son had an ungovern- 
able temper. Revolutions had broken out among his 
tutors, and it had become necessary to appoint an 
entirely new set. The sovereign who was prepared 
to coerce a continent was not likely to brook insubor- 
dination in a boy of fourteen. George Prince, however, 
was indifferent to the aims and obligations of his 
royal father, and took a pardonable delight in correcting 
a misquotation of his new governor and convicting 
him of a false quantity. The instructors laughed, 
but the new governor retired precipitately and his 
office was taken by his amiable brother the Duke of 
Montague. Hurd, the new preceptor, combined piety 
and learning with a keen appetite for preferment. The 
King liked him, and the courtier in Hurd nursed the 
circumstance as tenderly as His Majesty's gardener 
nursed the plants at Kew. 

No boy at fourteen ever led a duller life than 
George Prince ; few boys of fourteen have ever been 
better fitted to survive the evil consequences of too 
much supervision. He had started with a governess, 
a deputy-governess, a wet nurse, a dry nurse, a 
*' necessary woman " and two girls to rock his cradle. 
When he was nine years of age, the restrictions 

240 




From a mezzotint engraving by Valentine Green, after the picture by Benjamin West, P.R.A. 
GEORGE PRINCE OF WALES, AND PRINCE FREDERICK, AFTERWARDS 
DUKE OF YORK. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 241 

placed upon him by a numerous attendance were con- 
tinued by the substitution of as many men for women. 
His royal papa had learnt nothing from the lesson 
of his son's rebellion at the age of fourteen ; and 
now that he was past seventeen, a vague distaste 
for German discipline had been crystallised into 
passionate resentment and the conviction that for 
him at least happiness could only be found in 
insubordination. This conviction was, moreover, 
strengthened by the knowledge that at nineteen 
the Heir-apparent becomes legally of age. Liberty 
shone at him, then, like a star daily increasing in 
brightness through the dismal vista of routine to which 
he was still formally condemned. Soon he would 
be free to travel abroad and air the perfection of his 
French and Itahan, to judge the masterpieces of 
foreign art and do credit to his drawing master in 
the nicety of his criticism, to astonish the sovereigns 
of Europe by his taste in literature and the classics, 
to pink his man in a duel and show that he had 
profited by the lessons from his Russian fencing 
master. 

To play the part of Florizel to Mary's Perdita 
was a delicious recreation in which he sought to 
realise his inherent love of romance. Here was a 
golden opportunity to signalise his contempt for the 
principles of practical monarchy which his obstinate, 
unimaginative father had so vainly sought to instil 
into him. To substitute the names of George and 
Mary for those of Perdita and Florizel and fling 
wisdom to the winds seemed to the ardent youth 
a token of sovereignty indeed ; not the calculating 
sovereignty of a commercial king who kept accounts 

16 



242 PERDITA 

with the piddling precision of a bank clerk, but the 
sovereignty of high natures like those of Anthony 
or Alexander the Great. History, as he well knew, 
could provide royal precedents for this philosophy, 
more glorious if less numerous than those in which the 
elemental passions of the man had been meanly 
sacrificed to the base obligations of a constitutional 
king. Surprise that Mary should make herself so 
difficult of access when once he had openly, even 
defiantly, proclaimed the sincerity of his intentions, 
soon yielded to a sentiment of esteem for a delicacy 
which, to the libertine Maiden, appeared no more than 
artful coquetry. The Royal Marriages Act precluded 
the possibility of marriage, although when it had been 
passed a few years before, the King little thought 
that its effects would so soon be experienced by his 
son, nor was he yet aware of the Prince's infatuation. 

In the meantime Maiden became the vehicle of 
communication between Florizel and Perdita over a 
period lasting into the spring of 1780, when the winter 
season at Drury Lane Theatre came to a close. In 
every letter Florizel renewed his solicitations for an 
interview. All the resources of that polite literature 
to which his tutors had introduced him, were now 
employed to bend the stubborn will of the shepherdess. 
From his grandfather, the ill-fated Prince Frederick, 
he had inherited the facility for versifying, and when 
prose could no longer convey the intensity of his 
emotions, he broke into poetry. Maiden was secretly 
consumed with laughter over these effusions, especially 
when he thought of what the King would say to them 
if he could only know. Like the gout, poetry often 
skips a generation, he reflected. Had he dared, he j 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 243 

would have quoted Prince Frederick's Lines to a Lady 
to his grandson, lines in which the catalogue of charms 
would have fitted the actress to a nicety with her — 

Lovely range of teeth so white 
As new shorn sheep, equal and fair. 

At first, Perdita answers in the language of Shake- 
speare. She has but to quote the lines from her part, 
for what could be more apt ? 

Oh, but dear sir, 
Your resolution cannot hold, when 'tis 
Oppos'd, as it must be, by the power o' the King. 

George Prince pursues her on to her own ground 
in his reply : 

Or I'll be thine, my fair, 
Or not my father's. 

Perdita beseeches him to take care of his own State 
and drown remembrance of her own poor beauties. 
When Florizel thinks she has no more Shakespeare 
left to quote at him, when thwarted passion clogs the 
course of his Muse and thickens the ink in his pen, 
he bids Maiden convey jewels to her. To his dismay 
they are returned. At this point Maiden expresses 
the wish to withdraw from these negociations. But 
George Prince flies out at the word. Every moment 
that he can spare from the supervision of his tutors 
is spent in devising some new conceit with which to 
subdue the scruples of the divine shepherdess. Having 
escaped at last from a tedious exposition of the principles 
of gunnery and fortification conducted in the gardens 
of Kew, he spends a whole afternoon cutting out 
little hearts in white paper until he hits upon the size 



244 PERDITA 

and shape to suit his bewildered fancy. Perdita has 
wounded him by reflecting on the possibiHty that his 
sentiments may change. His answer is a present of 
his own portrait in miniature by the late Mr. Meyer, 
and within the case he carefully places the paper heart. 
Je ne change quen mourant he has written on one 
side of the tapering emblem, and on the other : 
Unalterable to my Perdita through life. " From prose 
to poetry," thinks obsequious Maiden as he disappears 
on his errand with the gift, " from poetry to symbols. 
Where indeed will this folly end } But in any case 
the end must be soon. Can she refuse even this 
token .? " In admitting that it was possible, he took 
added pleasure in reflecting that it was the height of 
improbability. 

Capitulation glimmers, if only faintly, from the terms 
of her letter in which she acknowledges the gift. 
Will he not be patient until he becomes his own 
master } Will he rush headlong upon the rock of 
the whole Royal Family's displeasure .^ What does he 
know of the woman in the guise of a shepherdess whom 
he has wooed } If blind to his own danger, has he 
weighed hers .'' Let him tear aside for a moment the 
rich robe of romance in which this courtship was 
wrapped. She must quit her husband, her profession. 
Calumny and envy would plot at her destruction. 
The consequences of his folly (how else could she 
call it .^) might be European. What right could she 
have to suppose that her happiness in the long run 
could outweigh considerations like these ^ 

His reply is a masterpiece of tact and generosity. 
Difficult as it is for him to view in the cold light 
of worldly probabilities, the happiness to which her 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 245 

letter encourages him to aspire, he is sensible of the 
obligation imposed upon him by the circumstances. 
The mere thought of inconstancy gives him inex- 
pressible pain. Her mention of it must be his excuse 
for the document which accompanies this note. Could 
she but have witnessed the agitation under which it 
was framed, she would cease to wonder at his im- 
portunity. He begs her to summon all the pity in 
her nature to her aid before letting her eyes dwell 
upon the chill phraseology of an official communication 
wrested from him in a climax of desperation. 

Mary can scarce credit the evidence of those eyes 
as she glances at the Prince's signature and the seal 
of the royal arms. But the poet burns through the 
solemn jargon of legal terminology in this amazing 
document sewn with the pearls and rubies of the royal 
lover's rhetoric. Could all the wealth of Indies shift 
the stars in heaven or still the motion of an aching 
heart .'' What bloodless statistician had ever pressed 
the exercise of his skill to the point of daring to 
estimate in money the price of the love that Paris 
felt for Helen of Troy ? From flights like these the 
document made gentle descent to the flat levels of 
a solemn bond containing a promise to pay the sum 
of twenty thousand pounds on the Prince's coming 
of age. 

Still Mary hesitates. Eagerly she takes the pearls 
and rubies of this strange poetry to cover from her 
conscience the naked spectacle of surrender. But the 
"promise to pay" leaves the sharp sting of mortified 
pride. Again she urges him to reflect upon the sorrow 
he will bring upon his royal father. Lord Maiden 
shows little of his wonted composure when he brings 



246 PERDITA 

her the swift answer to this last appeal. The period 
of his humiliating office has stretched itself over 
months. This very morning the Duke of Cumberland 
has paid him an early visit and implored him to bring 
this matter to a happy issue : his nephew's peace of 
mind, he declares, is utterly undone, and his health 
so seriously undermined that the whole matter cannot 
for long be withheld from the King. " By your 
solicitude for my father," writes George Prince, " you 
stir in me the depths of an affection I had thought 
all but extinguished by the harshness of his conduct." 
The rest of the letter is all impatience for an interview 
already too long postponed. 

At Maiden's suggestion that she should visit the 
Prince in his apartments in the disguise of male 
attire, her delicacy recoils. The stage has not hardened 
her to the point of being insensible to the conventions 
of real life. His lordship is quick to repair the error 
of the proposal by another, involving their meeting 
at his own house in Dean Street, Mayfair. To this, 
George Prince demurs on the practical ground that 
it would be difficult for him to evade the vigilance 
of his tutor in venturing so far from the royal house- 
hold. He is ready to risk all the consequences if 
she will come to Buckingham House. Of course 
she is too generous to be willing to involve him in 
such peril. From the exchange of fantastic epistles 
between Florizel and Perdita abounding in quotations 
from Shakespeare, their correspondence has now declined 
to a series of hasty notes from George Prince to 
Mrs. Robinson and from Mrs. Robinson to George 
Prince, notes in which the immediate necessity for 
agreement on a practicable plan has sent the Muses 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 247 

flying. The words creep on all fours to their dry- 
little conclusion. It is agreed that the Prince should ^ 
meet Mrs. Robinson after dusk in the gardens of Kew. 

Since the night of the third of December, Mary has 
played many new parts at Drury Lane Theatre. She 
has been Rosalind and Imogen. She has masqueraded 
on the stage as a page boy and as a nun in the 
desperate and successful attempt to convert a licentious 
suitor into a devout lover. She now bores Horace 
Walpole in a sentimental comedy written by a lady 
whose wit he admires and whom he sincerely pities 
for the badness of this performance. Has Mary lost 
her spirits.-^ Or is Walpole's judgment at fault .^ 
It is now the end of May, and on this same evening 
she plays a dashing young Irish widow who assumes 
an exaggerated brogue and an unnatural activity in 
order to disgust a tiresome old suitor with a nervous 
horror of high spirits. Why do the words hang so 
heavily on her lips on this occasion ^ Has she not 
kept audiences at the fever point of merriment in the 
same role ? 

This was her last appearance on the stage, and the 
thought of past triumphs mingling with the sense of 
tremulous apprehension at what was to come, unnerved 
her. Several times in the course of the farce her 
words failed her, and the song in which she bade 
farewell, wishing and praying a full measure of joy 
to all as the curtain fell, was sung through a mist 
of tears. 



XXIV 

History is nowhere so articulate as in the silence of 
disused palaces, in which the tarnished gold epaulets 
of dead admirals, the bridal veil of a queen, the faded 
wool in a sampler mutely emphasise the tale of battles 
lost or won, royal bliss or pain in marriage, domestic 
industry or intellectual stagnation in a house of which 
the occupants have long passed away. Books lead us 
with heightened curiosity to the speechless relics in 
their glass cases ; but the spirit of the age which they 
embody, lives with a livelier, a more poignant signifi- 
cance in the things than in all that historians have 
written about them and their owners. When once 
we know what happened to Marie Antoinette, can all 
the volumes of M. Thiers, can even the eloquence of 
Burke do as much to quicken the image of her sorrows 
as the spectacle of her bedroom in the palace at 
Versailles ? 

When George Prince was five years old, like other 
little boys he spent much time in trying to learn 
how to write. Is it the deliberate irony of the curator, 
or reverence for the tradition of monarchy, or chance, 
with a philosophy profounder than either, that'- has 
chosen to perpetuate the memory of this misguided 
son of a tragic father in a sheet from his copybook 
bearing in childish scrawl the words, " Conscious 
innocence"? It hangs in its frame on the wall of 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 249 

the room in Kew Palace which afterwards became his 
mother's drawing-room when the Dutch House, as it 
was then called, was converted from a home for the 
young princes into a summer residence for their royal 
parents. Except for the portraits of George as Prince 
of Wales and as King, this scrap of handwriting is 
all that has been left in Kew Palace to tell the story 
of that life. 

The house occupied by King George the Third and 
Queen Charlotte when they stayed, as they loved to 
do, during the Prince's minority at Kew, is no more 
in existence. It stood next to the Dutch House to 
which Lord Maiden had arranged to conduct Mary 
Robinson for her first interview with the Prince. But 
to avoid arousing suspicion, they were to come after 
dark and to enter the gardens from the riverside 
through a gate in the old wall. 

The night was warm and all June was in the leafy 
landscape which stretched from the high road of 
Brentford to the broad belt of the silver Thames. 
Towards six o'clock Lord Maiden and Mary were 
ferried to the trim little island between Brentford and 
the gardens of the Dutch House. Their dinner at 
the inn passed almost in silence. Lord Maiden was 
tired, melancholy, cynical in his reflections. 

"The motto Ich dien should have been mine in- 
stead of the Prince's," said he, as he took his seat 
opposite Mary at the table. But she scarce heard what 
he was saying. The languorous beauty of the scene, 
the strangeness of her situation, the mixture of ease 
and punctilio in her companion made her reluctant to 
face the reality of her actions. Everything proceeded 
with the mechanical perfection of a stage performance. 



250 PERDITA 

Maiden was the manager contriving the entrances and 
the exits. Lights gUmmered in the palace across the 
water. Soon she would be within those walls ; all 
the hardness and the misery of her marriage would be 
blotted out in the shining happiness of this adventure. 
In the picture which rose to her imagination she saw 
the Prince seated in an attitude of pensive melancholy 
in some leafy bower of the gardens. At her approach 
he looks up. Maiden disappears. Arm in arm the 
knight and the lady wander through the coolness of 
those groves. 

When Maiden and she had dined, they stood on a 
terrace and watched for the signal which was to summon 
them to the opposite shore of the river. Boats glided 
past them ; the sun's last shimmer departed from the 
surface of the water, and the clanking chain of their 
own boat moored beneath where they stood seemed 
to grow more persistent with the ebb of the tide which 
whispered and gurgled at their feet. 

" Ich dien, ich dien^'' murmured Maiden impatiently, 
as he paced up and down, with his eyes fixed on the 
narrowing path across the river. It was growing so 
dark that he could scarcely distinguish the palace wall 
from the water which came almost to its edge. 

Mary heard the cry of a waterfowl, low, plaintive, 
remote, making doubly sombre the succeeding stillness. 
The sound lingering in her ears roused a faint echo 
as of something familiar shrouded in a mystery of 
exquisite pain. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears at 
the thought of her child lying asleep in her cradle. 
Lord Maiden touched her arm. 

" Do you see something waving yonder } " said he, 
as he pointed across the river. " It might be the 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 251 

royal standard or a pocket handkerchief for aught I 
can tell." 

Gazing along the line marked by his direction, she 
descried what looked like the thickening of mist into 
a tiny cloud that quivered for a moment and then 
disappeared. Slowly she nodded her head. Soon the 
water was rushing on both sides of her as Lord 
Maiden rowed her across the river. It seemed as if 
they made no progress in their course, until as if by 
an independent motion of the boat she came smoothly 
alongside. They landed almost exactly opposite a tall 
iron gate, which her companion, drawing a key from 
his pocket, stealthily unlocked. In another moment 
they stood in the faint whiteness of a rising moon, 
and Mary became aware of two figures hastening from 
the dark end of a broad avenue of trees to their 
encounter. Muffled laughter, all the more joyous for 
its restraint, fell upon her ears. 

" So you have come at last . . . Perdita," said the 
taller of the two figures, and all her fears vanished 
at the sound of his low, musical voice. As she looked 
up at the speaker, the irresistible sweetness of his smile 
linked the moment swiftly with that other when his 
eyes had pursued hers with their burning message as 
the curtain fell upon " A Winter's Tale." 

" Diana herself was not more fair " he whispers 
fondly, and then, forgetting the dangers of discovery, 
laughs aloud at the restrictions put upon princes by 
their tutors. His brother and he have spent the after- 
noon in the study of Vauban's systems of fortification. 

" All Vauban's skill is powerless," he cries, glancing 
merrily at his brother, " against a single dart from 
Cupid." 



252 PERDITA 

The Bishop of Osnaburgh turns uneasily from 
Lord Maiden with whom he has been conversing. 

" Take care, brother, this is no wire entanglement," 
says he, and looks in the direction of Kew House, 
at which George laughs. So they hurl at each other 
the dry terms of fortification, giving them a comic 
twist in the ridicule of their application to this 
nocturnal adventure. 

'*The night affords a covered way for this lady," 
says the Prince. But the Bishop points upwards at the 
sky and bids him extend his position beyond the range 
of yonder demilune. 

" Brother Frederick is all prudence," cries George, 
drawing Mary with him into the shadow cast by a 
neighbouring tree across the gravel walk. 

" And brother George all folly," answers the 
Bishop. 

*' Most reverend signior, if 'tis folly to pursue the 
fair, then I am fond indeed. What if this lady enchant 
me into oblivion of a kingdom } Must I for ever 
wear the frilled collar of a child ? " 

"Your Royal Highness " interposed Lord 

Maiden. 

" My royal highness ! " e.choed the Prince, mimicking 
the accents of the speaker. " Talk rather to me of 
yonder royal highness," and he in his turn points 
overhead to where the silvery pilot of the night is 
sailing high and valiant in a shoreless ocean of blue 
indigo. '* iVt such a time the sound of titles grates 
on my ear. The frogs that croak in marshes make 
sweeter music. To-night I am no earthly heir to a 
throne, but Florizel, Prince Florizel. Call this en- 
counter ' Florizel's folly ' if you will. I follow in 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 253 

golden Apollo's footsteps. Safe in these shepherd's 
weeds, what cause have I to fear discovery ? " 

His long black coat buttoned to the chin mocked 
the description with an effect so comic, that Mary 
herself was swept into the tempest of laughter which 
overtook the others. The Prince laughed too, but a 
noise as of rapid footsteps approaching from the 
direction of the King's house reduced them to sudden 
silence. 

" 'Tis your buff coat," muttered Maiden, glancing 
at the Bishop, " that has betrayed us. The rest 
of us are black as hell itself. But there is no time to 
lose. Come, Madam." 

In less than a minute the iron gate in the wall of 
the palace gardens had closed noiselessly behind Lord 
Maiden and Mary. As she looked back she saw the 
two brothers hastening up the avenue towards the 
Dutch House, while a group of figures bearing lighted 
torches hurried across the level greensward from the 
neighbourhood of the King's residence. 

Maiden was sullen and said nothing as he rowed 
Mary across the Thames to Brentford, nor was she 
tempted to rufile the serenity of silence by conversa- 
tion. For her, he was no more than a boatman linking 
the almost fabulous enchantment of that transitory bliss 
on one side of the river with the cold littleness of 
everyday life which awaited her on the other side. 

Did this indeed await her ? Or was this brief rapture 
but a prelude silenced by a mere whim of Fate at the 
sound of the first few notes, but silenced only to break 
forth anew into the longer rhapsody ? Awe at the 
elevation of his rank could no longer exist for one 
whose hand had felt the fever of his lips in the hurried 



2 54 PERDITA 

business of departure. But half an hour ago she was 
still the martyred wife of a libertine husband. Now 
the martyrdom had slipped from her, and her shoulders 
were uneasy at the unfamiliarity of such freedom. As 
she was borne past the eyot between Kew and Brent- 
ford it lowered at her with mysterious significance. 
Was it not to mark for ever the boundary between the 
one life and the other? For in her simple mind the 
very geography of the circumstances assumed a shadowy 
importance at which she grasped in order to escape from 
the responsibility of examining her own actions outside 
the high light of romance. 

At the outset she had determined by all the resources 
of her ingenuity to humble her royal suitor ; but 
before she had exercised one half of her powers, 
behold, the youth had capitulated. Now, as the coach 
drove her from Brentford to Covent Garden, she was 
surprised to discover in herself a strong sentiment of 
gratitude that he had not compelled her to beat him 
to his knees. It was as if she had become indebted 
to him in a way as pleasing as it was unexpected, 
for as surely as she had hated Lord Lyttelton when 
he had connived at her ruin, she loved this George 
Prince, this headstrong youth who could cast aside 
the near responsibilities of a kingdom for the flowers 
in a lady's hat, this Florizel who could pursue a folly 
into the very region of history, undismayed by the 
warnings of professional advocates of repectability and 
prudence. 

On his way up the avenue of trees leading to the 
Dutch House the Prince suddenly stopped his brother. 

" Listen," said he, and they both paused to hear 
the nightingale warble in a river of rich notes. The 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 255 

bird sang as though that evening would never wear 
to morning. 

" This music," cries Florizel, *' is harsh, crabbed, 
unsympathetic to the ear soothed with the voice of 
Perdita. If the King lets you go abroad, Frederick, 
do not stay for me. The skies of Italy and France 
cannot match the light in the eyes of this British 
beauty." 

He turned to look down the avenue across the river, 
and the lantern on the boat conveying Mary to the 
opposite shores shone faintly at him, a glimmering 
speck on the water. The wave of his hand with 
which he greeted it as he disappeared with his brother 
within the walls of the Dutch House resembled more 
a salutation than a farewell. It was entirely destitute 
of "conscious innocence," but as a salutation it was 
worthy of the morning star itself. 



XXV 

The briefness no less than the enchantment of this 
first interview sets wings to the feet of Prince Florizel's 
desires. He is advised even now not to act too 
precipitately. But of what avail are the counsels of his 
brother and Lord Maiden now that his first thought 
as he wakes is of Perdita — not the wilful quean of 
the stage as he had begun to think her, but the artless 
woman who for the first time comes into the life 
of a boy to touch a vanity that is bottomless. The 
misfortune of her marriage shines at him from her 
eyes with a sadness making her doubly adorable. 
When at last she passes up the avenue of those gardens 
within the walls of the Dutch House, " You are like 
the moonlight," he cries, " stealing into the darkness 
of a dungeon." 

What could they gain by further postponement ? 
Are not the pens of gazetteers and caricaturists already 
busy with the embroidery of their romance ? Do not 
these very hieroglyphs of satire and invective add zest 
to the passion which they ridicule ? " 'Tis all so different 
from what they paint it," is George Prince's enraptured 
comment. The interviews at Kew grow more frequent. 
Florizel has a pretty voice, and lets it sound into the 
night when the good King and Queen are fast asleep 
and dreaming that all their care and solicitude for the 

256 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 257 

upbringing of the young princes are turning them 
into "useful examples worthy of immitation." 

Mary leaves her house in Covent Garden for one 
in Cork Street. With characteristic agility she rises 
to the splendour of her new station. Du Barry herself 
was not more reckless in her expenditure. Her equipage 
is the talk of the town. Here is its description in a 
magazine of the period : " The body is of carmelite 
and silver ornamented with a French mantle and the 
cypher in a wreath of flowers ; the carriage scarlet and 
silver, the seat cloth richly ornamented with silver 
fringe. Mrs. Robinson's livery is green faced with 
yellow, and richly trimmed with broad silver lace, the 
harness ornamented with stars of silver richly chased 
and elegantly finished. The inside of the carriage is 
lined with white silk embellished with scarlet trimmings." 

What wonder that she is often obliged to wait for 
hours in a shop before the crowd which gathers round 
this vehicle can be dispersed ^ Florizel's generosity is 
boundless. The Duke of Cumberland is delighted 
at his nephew's conduct. Here is a son capable indeed 
of teaching that obdurate father a lesson. Like a 
circus master cracking his long whip to give encourage- 
ment to the young debutant in the arena, the Duke 
applauds each new impulse to folly in the Prince. 
Since Cumberland's marriage the King has never 
spoken with his brother, and the Duke still smarts 
under the sting inflicted upon him and his wife in 
the Royal Marriages Act. But Prince Florizel shall 
bend the majesty of that stern brother to breaking 
point. What sharper instrument could the unscrupu- 
lous Duke choose to wound the proud father than 
his rebellious son ? " He shall curse the day on which 

17 



258 PERDITA 

he set his signature to that bill," cries this unforgiving 
brother. So he sets up a faro table at Cumberland 
House and entices the Prince to gamble to his heart's 
content. What need *' Taffy " (as he affectionately 
calls his royal nephew) care for debts, since either papa 
or the people must eventually pay them ? Such is the 
way in which this sponsor fulfils his duties towards 
his godson. 

Florizel finds his uncle good company, and is ready 
enough to follow his counsel. So Mary keeps two 
blackamoors to hold torches for her, and the hall of 
her house in Cork Street is lined with a retinue of 
liveried servants. If George the Third cared little for 
" boetry and bainting," his son would show that he 
was a patron of the Muses. He commissions one 
portrait after another of his Perdita. In the first, 
at the request of His Royal Highness, two doves are 
to be included, in allusion to Florizel's words in the 
play : " So turtles pair that never meant to part." 
The turtles look sheepish enough to this day even 
for the satisfaction of royalty, but the portrait is a 
Mary much maligned, reclining on a classical sofa near 
a marble bath. Fairer, infinitely fairer records than 
this of the Russian courtier Stroehling have come down 
to us in the canvases of Gainsborough and Romney 
where the lady's beauty fits her like a glove. From 
one studio to another she drives to exercise the skill 
and fill the pockets of the master painters, from 
Cavendish Square to Bentinck Street where young 
John Thomas Smith is serving his apprenticeship as 
an engraver under Sherwin. The boy never forgot 
that lovely apparition for something that happened one 
morning when she called with her mother, and Sherwin 



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From a photograph by W. Mansell & Co. of the pictur 
collection by George Romney, K.A. 



MARY ROBINSON. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 259 

was out. " Do find your master's drawing for me and 
I will reward you, my little fellow," she said. He 
looked at her as if he would cross the Alps to fetch 
a flower for her, and ran upstairs humming a refrain 
from Love in a Village : " With a kiss and a kiss, 
I'll reward you with a kiss." On his return with the 
picture she took him at his word, and the boy blushed 
scarlet, although the kiss was as innocent as those with 
which the Duchess of Devonshire supplicated the votes 
and stole the hearts of the butchers to win Mr. Fox 
his election. 

Because the love of George Prince and Mary had 
crossed the Rubicon of romance and entered upon the 
territory of a substantial relation, it is not to be assumed 
that their ardour for each other's company abates. As 
yet there is no prospect of a joint establishment. They 
write as many letters to each other as before, and the 
fringe of a poetic inspiration still flutters in the 
signatures : Florizel and Perdita. But in the place 
of poetry is the prose of daily, almost hourly solicitude 
for each other's bodily welfare. The Muses have 
descended with a bump. 

In one letter the Prince is so distraught that he 
forgets his own imaginary name. As if to recover 
from so humiliating a lapse from his earlier and more 
Olympian style, he writes the next letter in French 
and signs the name in his own blood. He implores 
her not to risk her life by riding too fiery a horse 
in Hyde Park. In her reply she begs him not to 
overheat himself at the Pantheon by cotillons and 
allemandes, but to stick to minuets and light country 
dances. They exchange gossip on the clubs, on the 
powers of Mrs. Siddons as an actress, on the stupidity 



26o PERDITA 

of a masked Ridotto for which he has sent her tickets. 
" Stupid indeed," he writes, " was last night's enter- 
tainment, but stupidity is the rage, the influenza of 
the times," Cheerfully he babbles of a drunken 
escapade at Lord Chesterfield's house at Blackheath, 
in which he has stumbled and hurt his leg. She is 
distressed beyond measure to hear of this accident, 
and cannot rest until she has been reassured as to the 
progress of his recovery. 

The splendour of his gifts rises as the splendour 
of his prose sinks. He sends her his portrait in 
miniature by Cosway together with an eager acceptance 
of her invitation to eat a bit of dinner at the Star and 
Garter in Richmond. If she is there before him, let 
her order the dinner. To save her the embarrassment 
of making a choice of dishes he tells her he is cloyed 
with fricassees, ragouts and the like, and longs to take a 
touch at the roast beef of old England, for in spite of 
his parentage he is an Englishman every inch of him. 
On the subject of dress he is minutely particular, and 
describes at length a new shoebuckle which he has 
invented ; it is more generous than any yet made, and 
follows the curve of the foot on either side in loops 
of diamond paste. She is to share the distinction of 
introducing this daring innovation to the fashionable 
world with himself ; for a pair is to be ordered at once 
for her if she will correct any inaccuracy in his memory 
of the size of her foot. In shoe-heels he follows the 
example set by Mr. Fox in his early dandy period, 
but for the scarlet of the statesman he substitutes a 
salmon pink. He distresses her a propos of Mr. Fox 
by the expression of a jealous suspicion. What is 
this story that has reached him of a new vis-a-vis 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 261 

presented to her by subscription raised at Brookes's 
in connexion with a sum of money in dispute at the 
gaming table ? " Can Florizel be jealous ? " she 
replies in high perturbation, " Great Heaven, is such 
a thing possible ? " The story is a base fabrication 
for which, she doubts not, some underlying political 
motive may be discovered. True, she has bought a 
vis-a-vis, and the beauty of the device on the panels 
of the carriage has aroused universal interest wherever 
she has driven in it. He should beware, however,' 
of the stories that emanate from Brookes's ; for this 
club is full, not of his enemies but of his friends who 
seek to widen the breach between him and his father 
and might well be glad to have it supposed that their 
Whig principles carried them even into the doubtful 
policy of paying a compliment to Perdita. 

Her attitude towards his father perplexes George 
Prince. She will not hear a word in his disfavour, and 
frequently she laments the circumstances which must 
place her in an odious light before His Majesty. 
When the admission fires him with a new protest 
against the army of official formalities which check him 
from the public avowal of his alliance with her, she 
finds excuses for all of them. George, with the Duke 
of Cumberland at the back of him, is all for throwing 
in his lot unreservedly with the Opposition, but Mary 
resents the notion that he should be made the political 
dupe of his own unfilial sentiments. She takes a delight 
in mitigating the ferocity of these sentiments whenever 
he gives expression to them. Queen Charlotte herself 
could not have lectured her wilful son to better purpose, 
and as for the King, the imagination recoils at the 
thought of what he would have said and done, could 



262 PERDITA 

he have heard his own views so often and so sincerely 
expressed by the woman with whose name his son's 
was so shamefully associated. 

The last person to exhibit any weakness in dealing 
with this stubborn son was his still more stubborn 
father, whose passion for prerogative reached its height 
(and met too with its fall) in his parental relation with 
a young man secured to a large extent by the very 
circumstances of his birth and prospects from the 
obligation of showing that subservience which many 
fathers find it comparatively easy to exact from their 
children. Other people might be influenced by per- 
sonal interest, or cajoled by an undeniable charm in the 
Prince's presence and manner of address into a lenient 
view of his character, but George the Third prided 
himself on his knowledge of this son's character and 
opposed what he regarded as its tendencies to evil 
with a zeal as fanatical as it was pious. Did the Heir- 
apparent, like other young men of his acquaintance, 
sigh after the recreations of Paris and propose a visit 
to the French capital, the King was at once ready 
with the counter-suggestion of Hanover. When the 
Ministers proposed a sum of money on the Prince's 
establishment, papa whips out documents at once to 
show that half the amount will do. 

But as yet the establishment is a thing of the future, 
for Florizel is only eighteen on the twelfth of August 
in the year 1780, and there is still left a year in which 
to curb his aspirations to independence. Both the 
father and the son looked to the later date as a crisis 
in the battle between them, and the Ministers were 
already falling into ranks on the one side or the 
other. As a preliminary to the full establishment, it 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 263 

was now proposed to give the Prince a separate suite 
of apartments in Buckingham House. 

Mary followed the negociations on foot with the 
keenness of one closely interested in their satisfactory 
issue. Had she been the desperate courtesan which 
her enemies sought to represent her, she would have 
goaded the Prince and his adherents into making the 
most extravagant demands. As it was, she took every 
opportunity of discountenancing an attitude of de- 
fiance. If she was unable by the nature of the cir- 
cumstances to evade the obloquy showered upon her 
as the mistress of the Prince, she did not despair of 
exercising, at some future date, the influence of a 
princess, or even, if fate willed it so, of a queen. It ' 
was fifteen years since the King had alarmed every- 
body by entering into a conversation with an oak-tree 
in the course of a drive through Windsor Forest, but 
his health was known to be precarious, and the 
disappointments of the American War had sadly 
impaired his spirits. Who could tell how soon the 
responsibilities of sovereignty might pass from the 
father to the son ? 

In the meantime everything that tended to regularise 
her relationship with the Prince exalted her own 
position. At times she would try to picture herself 
as the mother of his children ; not that they would 
ever usurp the place which the little Maria held in 
her affections. Even on the little girl's account she 
had welcomed the change in her life which finally 
separated her from a husband whose very presence 
was an outrage on the innocence of childhood. So 
when Mary is not writing to the Prince or driving 
to Richmond to keep an appointment with him, when 



264 PERDITA 

she tires of sitting for her portrait and seeks repose 
in the glittering solitude of her house in Cork Street, 
she often turns for recreation to the amateur" game 
of playing at mamma, teasing and fondling the child 
with an artless persistence which raises a smile on the 
wan face of Mrs. Darby, who is utterly perplexed 
by the apparent contradictions in the composition of 
her daughter's character. 

The Duke of Cumberland is delighted at the 
tempest of scandal now raging about Florizel and 
Perdita in waves so high as to make it impossible for 
the King any longer to affect ignorance of the matter, 
but he is disappointed with Mrs. Robinson herself ; 
a retired actress had no right to that air of disdain ; 
her morals he regarded as squeamish : not good enough 
for the stern demands of perfect propriety, not bad 
enough to make her company an excuse for merriment. 
He thought her stupid too, for what, he asked himself, 
could she hope to gain by her misguided attempt to 
spare his royal brother some of the humiliation in 
which her own alliance with the Prince was bound to 
involve him ? To satisfy his own vindictive spite, 
one woman was as good as another to entangle his 
nephew and humble his brother's pride, provided 
she realised her own powers for making things un- 
comfortable, and exercised them. But Mrs. Robinson 
did neither, and the worst of it was, that "Taffy" 
still believed himself deeply in love with her, and 
fondly maintained that she had permanent claims upon 
his consideration. If only the silly youth could be 
persuaded out of the arms of this milk-and-water 
enchantress into those of a more spirited and less 
scrupulous substitute ! 



XXVI 

By enlarging the Prince's liberty in small instalments 
even before he came legally of age, the King hoped 
to diminish the force of the claim which that young 
gentleman would inevitably make, as soon as he was 
in a position to do so. From the guarded seclusion 
of the Dutch House (for so he thought it) to the 
dignity of a small separate establishment in Bucking- 
ham House was a handsome preliminary measure, 
and would cost very little if the Prince used, as it 
was intended he should use, the King's servants. 
That his son should occupy a separate establishment 
altogether was an idea repugnant to George the Third, 
who wished to have him as long as possible under the 
parental eye. If the King could dodge each fresh 
demand by the concession of another wing in his own 
palace, he would be satisfied. 

But the commercial conduct of this father, inspired 
as it was by the highest motives, neither deceived 
nor conciliated his clever son. On the contrary, it 
inflamed his resentment all the more. What was the i 
use of being Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, 
Hereditary Steward of Scotland, Duke of Rothsay, 
Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, and a variety of 
other historical and ornamental things, if you could 
not enjoy the company of a lady at supper in your 
own house without being taken to task by papa and 

265 



266 PERDITA 

mamma? He had long been accustomed to wear the 
Star on his breast, and the Garter had shone upon 
his leg ever since he was a child of three years old, 
but of what value was the brightness of either star or 
garter, compared with the lights of the Star and Garter 
at Richmond on a summer evening ? And so long 
as he lived in the immediate neighbourhood of the 
King it would always be easy for His Majesty to 
invent some public business to keep him away from 
his private pleasures. 

But the secrecy to which he is pledged in public 
as a consequence of his rank adds zest to the private 
indulgence of George Prince's love for Mary. Some- 
thing of the actor's enjoyment of impersonation is 
stimulated in him by this alliance with an actress. 
His official life, he tells her, is a mere puppet show 
from which he flies in his leisure moments to the 
sweeter reality of her presence. What is the heat 
of all the thirty-six fires that are blazing at one moment 
in London through the folly of Lord George Gordon, 
compared with the heat of Florizel's passion for his 
Perdita ? One of these burning buildings is the prison 
in which Mary had languished with her incorrigible 
husband. Were the fates conspiring to extinguish 
all memory of that period of sorrow and shame ? 
Except for the death of Grandmamma Elizabeth, the 
year 1780 was for her aspiring granddaughter a record 
of pure gaiety unstained by regret. 

On the first of January 1 7 8 1 George Prince receives 
his first instalment of that establishment over which 
his father deals in so niggardly a spirit. He is still 
a long way from the possession of Carlton House, 
but it is something to have a separate suite of apart- 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 267 

ments in Buckingham House, and he wears an air 
of increased insolence as he appears at court in a pink 
silk coat with white cufFs. 

Pink is the Prince's favourite colour, and he wears 
it again at the Royal Ball at St. James's on the fourth 
of June in celebration of the King's birthday. Such 
a crowd assembled in the courtyard of the palace to 
see His Royal Highness's new coach on this occasion 
that it had to be dispersed with the aid of constables. 
It is in their equipages that the extravagant fancies 
of Florizel and Perdita paint themselves in glowing 
hues. The Prince's carriage was lined with rose velvet 
and hung round with curtains of rose satin richly 
fringed with gold festoons. The harness was of blue 
leather edged with red and stitched with white, and 
the horses wore scarlet ribbons and monstrous plumes 
of feathers on their heads. 

It was a busy day for the Royal Family. King and 
Queen, Princes and Princesses, the big ones as well 
as the little ones, awoke to the sound of the bells that 
ushered in the festive occasion. At noon the Park 
and Tower guns were fired, and at one the family 
were assembled in the Grand Council Chamber to 
hear recited the Ode in celebration of the King's 
Birthday. The Drawing-Room afterwards was more 
crowded than it had been for some years past, the 
dresses of the ladies, in the language of the chronicler, 
being " both rich and elegant " ; and it was difficult 
indeed to decide who cut the lovelier figure, the 
Duchess of Hamilton in her lemon-coloured gown 
trimmed with stripe tissue, silver and pink foil, or 
Lady Melbourne in sea green and silver with her 
fanciful embroidery of flowers. By six o'clock the 



268 PERDITA 

Drawing-Room was over, and papa, mamma, and the 
children dined at the palace. George Prince bored 
himself even more than usual at the family table, for 
on this occasion he was obliged to appear punctually. 
But he drank plenty of champagne, and yet not enough 
to incapacitate him, as it did his brother William on 
a similar occasion, from opening the ball by a minuet 
with his sister. 

Mary watched him from her place in the chamber- 
lain's box to which she had been introduced at a 
request of the Prince himself. She could afford to 
feel elated at the distinction thus conferred upon her ; 
for with the exception of Mrs. Armstead and one or 
two other ladies who sported carriages of their own, 
the amorous squadron of beauties who had thought 
to catch a glimpse of the Prince on his way to court, 
by taking up a position in a hackney coach in St. 
James's Street, had all been outwitted by the simple 
order that no common vehicles were to be admitted 
to the street. The party of constables placed at either 
end of it to attend faithfully to the execution of this 
order had enjoyed many a pretty joke at the expense 
of the disappointed fair. 

But now it is nine o'clock and the musicians launch 
a phrase or two into this brilliant company, as if to 
scare into a whisper the loud hum of gossip by a warn- 
ing that the earnest business of dancing is about to 
begin. Soon afterwards the Prince enters the room 
and pays his compliments to several of the nobility. 
A lady takes two rosebuds from her bouquet and 
presents them to the Prince. Their colour is marvel- 
lously in accord with that of His Royal Highness's 
coat. Mary notes the carelessness of his manner as 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 269 

he acknowledges the gift, and then, with a glance first 
in her direction and then in another part of the circle, 
beckons a gentleman to whom he gives the rosebuds 
with a message. A minute or two later this gentleman 
enters the chamberlain's box : the rosebuds are for 
Mary. She places them in her bosom, and, acting 
indifference, feels a high exaltation at this public 
humiliation of a rival. The Duke of Cumberland 
enters the ballroom soon after his nephew. The loose 
swagger of his deportment offers a marked contrast 
to the grave carriage of his brother the King, who 
enters with the Queen and the Princess Royal. A 
few minutes are spent by their Majesties in conversa- 
tion with the nobility and the foreign ambassadors in 
the circle, before their eldest son and daughter step 
into the middle of the room to walk their minuet. 

The Prince's dancing was masterly ; it combined 
exquisite precision with careless elegance ; it mingled 
princely condescension with musical abandon ; it was 
grave, gay — a blank-verse tragedy, a satire in motion. 
Every one was delighted at the brotherly solicitude 
with which he followed the slightly embarrassed 
progress of his sister through the figures. This was 
the first time the Princess Royal had walked in public, 
and an occasional slip in memory or execution was 
skilfully covered each time by the address of His 
Royal Highness. The second minuet was danced 
by the Duke of Cumberland and Lady Parker, but 
the Duke's style was inferior to his nephew's, and Lady 
Parker's skilled affectation was a tiresome spectacle after 
the girlish performance of the Princess Royal. Minuets 
were danced until eleven o'clock, and few indeed were 
the pairs who escaped criticism in that critical company. 



270 PERDITA 

The most laughable episode, however, in this portion 
of the evening was introduced by Colonel North, who 
in the step to the left accidentally trod upon the King's 
toes. For a moment it looked as if he must either 
tumble into the lap of majesty or fall flat on his face, 
but by a desperate effbrt he contrived to balance his 
person without doing either. No sooner, however, 
had he saved the situation than its absurdity struck 
him with such overwhelming force that, as a wit 
observed, his face looked like the tomb of laughter just 
before the resurrection. 

Country dances began at half-past eleven, and when 
three figures had been performed, their Majesties and 
the Princess Royal retired, the splendour of the ladies 
in their white and fawn silver tissue with the 
diamonds in their bows and sleeve-knots showing 
bravely in immediate contiguity with the stone-coloured 
silk coat of His Majesty, who always adopted the 
plain style on these occasions. Mary's view of the 
King and Queen on this evening strengthened her 
prepossession in their favour. She had a weakness for 
good people, and the goodness of this mother and 
father shone in the depths of the King's keen eyes, 
and in that look of suffering patience and ardent 
tenderness in those of his wife. How long would it 
be before they came to know that the woman who had 
succumbed to the charms of their son was no desperate 
adventuress, but an ill-starred lady upon whom fate had 
cast a responsibility all the wider in its influence for 
being undefined by custom ? Although in age she was 
but a few years the Prince's senior, in experience and 
a knowledge of people her royal lover was by com- 
parison a mere stripling. Again and again she had 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 271 

warned him to be more circumspect in the manner of 
his attentions to her in pubhc. But whether it was at 
the King's hunt near Windsor, or at a review of the 
troops, or at a theatre, he took an especial pleasure in 
distinguishing her from the rest of the company in a 
way that courted criticism. The daily prints expended 
much ingenuity in allusive paragraphs, in which the 
scurrilous note gathered force as the days advanced. 
This was the golden age of libels and lampoons. The 
art of innuendo was at its height, and in comparison 
with the things that were hinted at concerning his 
intrigues, George Prince was indeed an angel of light. 
Even good Queen Charlotte was suspected of an 
attempt to equip her son with a German mistress. 

When Mary left the palace on this night of the 
ball she was conscious, through all the glittering im- 
pression made by the scene, of a sentiment of disquiet. 
The Duke of Cumberland had eyed her maliciously as 
he sat cooling himself with the Prince and a few ladies 
after the heat of the dancing. What did that look 
portend .'' The grossness of his person was empha- 
sised by his neighbourhood to the Prince. Mary 
wondered what in his uncle's nature her dainty Florizel 
could find to attract him. She pitied the King for his 
relationship with such a brother. Her disquiet did 
not, however, proceed from this source alone. She had 
seen the Duchess of Devonshire at the ball, but some- 
how had been unable to attract her notice. To have 
missed a greeting from that lovable woman pained her. 
She had not forgotten what she owed the great lady. 
Had the Duchess forgotten ? It was easy not to see 
any one person in that crowded assemblage, with its 
perpetual movement and rapid change of interests 



272 PERDITA 

from one topic to another. But the Duchess had not 
danced. She had remained as stationary in her place 
as Mary in hers throughout the evening. Was it mere 
inadvertence which caused her to stare vacantly into 
the air whenever Mary's glance alighted upon her .? 
Or was the apparent inadvertence of her manner a veil 
to conceal some deeper instinct of aversion ^ At the 
mere shaping of this supposition Mary felt the sharp 
twinge of humiliation. But Lord Maiden puts a billet 
into her hands just as her coach is about to drive her 
from the palace. It is from the Prince. She reads it 
by the flickering light of the carriage lanterns as she 
is borne swiftly to Cork Street. He longs, so he 
writes, to fly from the tedious masquerade of the ball 
to more congenial company. Yet he fears an escape 
to-night is fraught with too much difiiculty. He 
mentions an early date for another meeting at Kew. 
Those gardens are his Elysian Fields. The note 
closes with a warning. He is consumed with jealousy, 
for word has been brought him that she has been seen 
at Ranelagh and Vauxhali in the company of a Colonel, 
a Lord, a Duke. The mere thought of another drink- 
ing at the fountain of her beauty fills him with rage, 
despair, madness. 



XXVII 

The lock of the iron gates in the palace wall clicked 
ever so slightly. Prince Florizel turned an ear in the 
direction of the sound. He had been leaning on the 
rail of the balcony at the back of the Dutch House. 
Brother Frederick was away. He missed his company, 
and yet the house seemed more to belong to him for 
the silence that reigned in it. The royal nursery was 
in another part of Kew. It was but a fortnight from 
his nineteenth birthday. As he gazed across the river 
it was not of Mary that he was thinking, but of 
Mrs. Armstead, whose face had beamed upon him from 
her yellow chariot as he had driven to St. James's 
Palace on the King's birthday nearly a month ago. 
It was curious, he reflected, how insistent had been 
the memory of that face. He had asked his uncle 
about her on the night of the birthday ball, when they 
had stayed to cool themselves after the others had 
left ; but the Duke had been reticent, had looked as 
if he could say more if he would, and had even 
turned the conversation to the Earl of Buckingham's 
new pea-green and silver coat, an unusual extravagance 
in the meanest peer of the realm. 

Mary stood alone in the avenue, with the beauty 
of that starlight night about her. She had rowed 
herself across the river, having persuaded the Prince 
much against his will to lend her the key of the gate. 

273 18 



274 PERDITA 

They had nearly quarrelled on this subject, and it was 
he who on this occasion had talked of circumspection. 
Suppose the key should be found on her person ? 
But she had shaken the portrait of His Royal Highness 
in miniature at him. " I carry this always about me. 
Have I not the key to your heart," said she, "and 
would you refuse me the key to your garden gate ? " 
She was tired of these official meetings under the 
conduct of Lord Maiden, and even hinted that the 
messenger would be ready enough to betray his trust. 
So he had yielded. But even as he hastened once 
more to her encounter, the memory of Mrs. Armstead 
lingered with him, and he indulged the pleasing fancy 
that it was she and not Mary who was waiting for 
him in the gardens. 

" Enchanting Perdita ! " he exclaimed, as he kissed 
her. 

She repudiated the name. 

" Perdita no more. I have done with the stage." 

" Yet I must go down to history as Prince Florizel." 

She laughed softly, and, speaking as if to herself, 
cried : " History ! What history will ever tell the 
story of my love for you ? " 

The music of her voice fell upon his ears like a 
peal of bells ringing far down in the unfathomable 
depths of her heart. 

" The time will come," said he bitterly, " when they 
will want to marry me to some German Princess." 

" But you will refuse," said Mary quickly. 

He looked fondly at her. Had his father refused, 
when his mother had been selected from the stock of 
marriageable German Princesses with the aid of a 
diplomat who reported on their respective merits ? 




From a mezzotint by Charles Howard Hodges, after the picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds, P.R.A. 
GEORGE PRINCE OF WALES. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 275 

That they loved each other and provided a pattern of 
domestic virtue for their subjects was no justification 
in the eyes of this rebellious son who hated the mere 
thought that he was the offspring of such a union. It 
was all very well to send him to church and expatiate 
upon the laws of government, but what system of 
religion or of good government could sanctify the 
excellence of such principles of monarchical business ? 

" I wonder," continued Mary, content to forego an 
answer to her question, " I wonder what kind of 
King you will make." 

George laughed. 

" I will be a poet King," he said. " I will complete 
the promise of my grandfather's short life. He died 
like an artist in the arms of his dancing master, more 
kingly, though a prince, than my father or his. My 
tutors tell me little of him, but they cannot silence the 
blood in my veins ; which tells me beauty must be my 
lodestar. When T was born they made a portrait 
model of me in wax. It lies in my mother's bedroom 
in a case of glass on a crimson cushion. I will outlive 
this insult to my person, for the thing is frightful. I 
could be sick each time I see it. Some day I will steal 
the figure from its case and put a sausage and some 
sauerkraut in its place." 

" A royal joke," cried Mary, laughing — " and the 
effigy } What will you do with it .? " 

" Stick pins into it and burn it," he answered gaily. 
" But first we will have a banquet in honour of the 
occasion, with solemn speeches and champagne. 
Maiden shall thrust the thing into the flames, and as 
it melts and bubbles we will drink a toast to the 
imperishable glory of Venus." 



276 PERDITA 

" A poet King," murmured Mary as they shut the 
moonlight from behind them and stood in the intimate 
seclusion of the Dutch House, in a silent corridor of 
which the darkness took the shape of a beckoning 
finger. 

The clamorous twittering and fluting of the birds 
in Kew had risen almost to its climax under the early 
morning light when Mary in her dark-coloured habit 
stole down the avenue and stepped into the boat lying 
where she had left it moored a few paces distant 
from the iron gate in the palace wall. Never had 
summer sunrise told its tale of mysterious beauty in 
more perfect accents to the woman rowing herself with 
affectionate slowness across the gleaming bosom of the 
river, A silvery mist was rising from the long sloping 
gardens that fringed the waterside at Brentford. To 
Mary it seemed like a silken veil miraculously lifted 
from the face of the sleeping landscape by hands 
working to effect her entire surrender to the loveliness 
of her impressions. As she neared the shore the dizzy 
music of the lark fell from on high in an exquisite 
marriage of sound with the babble of water round the 
boat. 'Twas as if the sunlight itself were singing in 
the streaming tide of jubilant sweetness that poured 
from the roofless blue of an unwrinkled heaven. 



XXVIII 

For almost the first time in recent years the Duke of 
Cumberland and his royal brother were striving to- 
wards the same end. The Prince's infatuation for this 
Mrs. Robinson must be checked, and without further 
delay. For it was highly inexpedient that she should 
associate herself with the new establishment, of which a 
further extension must be conceded soon after the 
nineteenth birthday of His Royal Highness on the 
twelfth of August. The hopes of the Duke were 
anchored in the charms of Mrs. Armstead, in whom 
unwary Florizel had already betrayed an interest that 
might well be exploited in the present dilemma. This 
lady could be trusted to show no cowardly sentiment 
towards the King, and thus the Opposition would 
secure the whole-hearted allegiance of the Prince. 

With the King, the affair assumed an entirely 
different aspect. He had hoped vainly that the flames 
of this passion would consume themselves before it 
should become necessary, in the public interest, to take 
an active part in suppressing a scandal which burned 
like a wound in his injured affection for his wayward 
son. Was it for this, that he had fought the hard-won 
battle of purity and piety in his domestic life against 
the vicious precedents of his own ancestors and the 
prevailing immorality of his own nobility.? Was this 
son to drag him face downwards through the city of 

277 



278 PERDITA 

his own hopes and earnest aspirations as a great and 
benevolent sovereign, a spectacle of idle grief and 
humiliation for his people to pity or mock at ? That 
George was impetuous, he knew, and, in spite of that 
parental sternness which never unbent in a son's pre- 
sence, could forgive. That he was horribly, dangerously 
extravagant, was a crime for which the responsibility 
did not rest alone on those young shoulders. That he 
should show an utter disregard for the feelings of his 
mother in the effrontery with which he lent colour to 
the most impudent innuendoes made about him con- 
cerning his liaison with this actress, was a fact that made 
of this young man a creature monstrous, unnatural, 
devoid of human goodness of soul. " He might have 
hit me in any point but this," he reflected miserably, 
" and I should have felt the blow less keenly." 

But George the Third was not the man to indulge 
in a luxury of regret without doing anything. There 
were moments when the sordid role that the circum- 
stances thrust upon him, filled him with a disgust so 
overwhelming, that he wondered how he could summon 
courage, he who lacked it not in other directions, to 
proceed any farther in this business. But these circum- 
stances became more and more exacting in their 
demands upon him. He was entirely out of touch 
with the inner life of his son, and lacked imagination 
to such a degree that he would have failed to under- 
stand what anybody meant who would speak to him 
of this inner life. A narrower intellect never crippled 
the aspirations of a good man. Father and son hardly 
ever spoke to each other. This situation tugged at 
the very roots of their different natures. The King 
devoutly hoped for a settlement without the painful, 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 279 

and, he feared, the futile necessity of a personal conver- 
sation on the subject with the Prince. 

Lieutenant-Colonel Hothani assured His Majesty 
that such an interview might be avoided if the conduct 
of the affair were entrusted to him. He knew Lord 
Maiden and was aware also that this was an auspicious 
moment for approaching the Prince, whose affections 
were less deeply centred in the lady than everybody 
had feared. The King gave his assent to a prelimin- 
ary investigation of his son's attitude, and Hotham 
retired to confer with Lord Maiden. 

Maiden laughed when the matter was laid before 
him. " 'Tis as good as settled," said he. " For the 
Prince is already throwing his pocket-handkerchief to 
another." 

But Hotham was precise : the wires of this entangle- 
ment must be snapped. It was a case for action, 
specific, drastic, immediate : the whole matter must 
be finally arranged before the twelfth of August. 
Maiden hummed dubiously. Too much zeal might 
spoil the issue. After some debate he agreed to con- 
sult the Prince and urge him to an express renunciation 
of the lady ; but he disliked hurry, and harped on the 
folly of too precipitate action. 

His first step was to visit the Duke of Cumberland, 
who took the liveliest interest in these proceedings. 
The Duke swore loudly that he would not exert his 
influence with the Armstead until the Prince had 
warned the Robinson off the field. It must be 
Maiden's melancholy office to persuade his nephew 
to write the necessary letter, which should be brief, 
deliberate, merciless in its insistence on a final 
separation. 



2 8o PERDITA 

George Prince lay on a sofa when Maiden was 
ushered into his presence. He had been bled by a 
surgeon twice within the last twenty-four hours. 

" How now ? " said he languidly, rolling his eyes 
in his visitor's direction. 

Lord Maiden apologised for the intrusion and ex- 
pressed anxiety for the state of His Royal Highness's 
health, while secretly rejoicing in an indisposition which 
might tend to weaken resistance to the proposal he 
had come to make. As soon as he ventured upon 
the topic of Mrs. Robinson the Prince stopped him. 

" Talk not of her," said he in an irritable voice. 
" My dream is of to-morrow. Poison it not with 
yesterday's remembrance. Do I look ill. Maiden ? " 

" I have seen your Royal Highness look better." 

'* 'Tis not enough. I would look as though I were 
dying. These cheeks should be wan with unsatisfied 
desire. A woman's love is born of pity." 

He raised a hand-mirror on a table at his side and 
cast it from him with the appropriate gesture of a 
skilled actress. " Not even to know her favourite 
colour," he continued in a peevish voice, " and every 
one is so afraid to enlighten me. Tell me. Maiden, 
what is it, what is it in a face that whips the appetite 
of man like a flail ? To-day I am well, my spirits 
sing within me. A face glances at me through some 
coach window as I drive. Of a sudden down go the 
blinds of merriment. Who is she } What does she ? 
Where lives she ? To-morrow I am grave as a tomb- 
stone. My stomach sickens at wine. The dice bore 
me. I cannot read, I cannot write. What do I know 
of her ? Her name and nothing; more. What is her 
name ? Armstead. A sound. Two linked syllables 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 281 

that mean nothing. She may come from the gutter 
or the Milky Way. I know not. 1 care not. 
Maiden," cried the Prince, observing a gleam of 
recognition in his visitor's eyes, " you know something 
of her. You can inform me where she lives. Speak, 
man, speak." 

Lord Maiden looked on the ground as he muttered, 
" She was once waiting-woman to the actress Mrs. 
Abington." 

The Prince jumped up from the sofa. 

" Tell me more, more," cried he. 

But Maiden waved him off. 

" There is the yesterday," said he, " as well as the 
morrow. First write to Mrs. Robinson. Cut for 
ever the knot of yesterday's remembrance before you 
look upon to-morrow's sunrise." 

The Prince seated himself at his writing-table and 
took up a pen. 

"Poor Perdita ! " said he, "poor Perdita ! What 
can I write. Maiden ? " 

Lord Leporello hummed. 

" Your Royal Highness errs on the side of chivalry," 
said he. " This lady will have consolations. She is 
resourceful, has many friends. To hint at reasons 
why you must meet no more would be sufficient to 
satisfy curiosity and silence protest." 

" Poor Perdita ! " said the Prince again, as he 
handed Maiden the letter. 

" Your presence is earnestly hoped for to-night at 
Cumberland House," said Lord Leporello. " His 
Grace has matters of importance to communicate to 
you. Mrs. Armstead will be of the company." 

When he left the Prince, Maiden stood for a few 



2 82 PERDITA 

moments in the street. He had no intention of 
delivering the letter himself. Would it be safe to 
entrust it to a linkman ? Finally he decided to walk 
well away from the neighbourhood of Buckingham 
House. He was careful in the choice of messengers 
and never entrusted two letters to the same man. 
When he had walked for half an hour, he began to 
scrutinise the lean individuals skulking in doorways 
on the look-out for an errand. Indulging the humorous 
fancy that one of them so strongly resembled in features 
Tom Robinson himself as to make his fitness for this 
errand cynically appropriate, he paused to assure 
himself that the man was not in fact the husband of 
Perdita, and then gave him half a crown, with instruc- 
tions to take the letter immediately to Cork Street. 



XXIX 

It was nearly dark when Mary, accompanied only by 
a boy postillion, set out in a small pony phaeton 
to drive from London to Windsor, where the Prince 
was staying a few days before the ball to be held in 
the Castle in honour of his nineteenth birthday. Two ' 
letters from her to her lover had remained unanswered. 
In the first she demanded, in the second she begged, 
an explanation of this cruel, inexplicable conduct. 
That she had enemies she knew, but that their malice 
could have poisoned the Prince's mind to her ruin 
within the space of two little days seemed incredible. 
The melody of that last meeting at Kew was still 
sounding in her heart when all its harmonies were 
dislocated by the harsh discord of his singular message. 
" I must see him — I must see him," she kept on 
repeating to herself, as the ponies trotted through this 
August night. The postillion was a gay little fellow 
who sang as he rode, and cracked his whip at the 
shooting stars, but his merriment seemed to add lead 
to her despair as they sped along. Save for an occa- 
sional outburst of jealousy, nothing had marred the 
serenity of those two years. And to be jealous, she - 
reflected, was a lover's privilege. Tears started to her 
eyes as she remembered how once he had taxed her 
with some fancied indiscretion. For answer she had 
laughed in his arms. " You never look so handsome 

283 



2 84 PERDITA 

as when you show your teeth," he had cried, and then 
she had vowed, rather than give him pain, to keep her 
mouth pinned up, that not a smile should escape her 
in the presence of others. 

The innkeeper at Hounslow, where they stopped to 
feed the ponies, told her that for the past ten nights 
every carriage which had crossed the Heath had been 
attacked and rifled. She cared nothing. Her father's 
adventurous spirit rose within her at the thought of 
a desperate encounter. Fancy pictured the footpad 
trying to throttle her that he might steal the jewelled 
stud in her black stock. She remembered some 
verses of her own, written in depression while she was 
still distracted by the contending claims of passion and 
duty when first the Prince had wooed her. In them 
she had written of death as no foe, but a welcome 
messenger bringing the passport to a long repose. 
" Unthink these lines," the Prince had said to her, 
when in the beginning of their happiness she had 
shown them to him ; and until now they had slept 
in her memory. The innkeeper was astonished, dis- 
mayed, at the obstinacy with which she ordered the 
ponies to be put in harness, and he shook his head 
apprehensively as the phaeton disappeared into the 
night. But although an attempt was made to stop 
the carriage as it neared the middle of the Heath, the 
nimble postillion turned so sharply, as a dash was 
made at the reins, that the ruffian missed his grasp 
and they were able to pursue their journey in safety 
to its end. 

The sight of Windsor's hills and vales bathed in 
the mystic light of an early summer morning brought 
no relief to the strain of suspense under which she 






■*.- 



,¥^■^■ v-'»'v ■ 






From a pencil sketch by John Downman, reproduced by kind permission of the Editor of 
T^te Connoisseur, 

MRS. ROBINSON. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 285 

laboured. On the contrary, as she drew nearer she 
was sensible of her humiliation being sharpened, as if 
her request for an audience with the Prince had 
already been refused, and she stood in the streets 
alone, like a child suddenly expelled from school with- 
out a word of explanation or an opportunity of 
defence, while the rest of her fellows were pursuing 
their tasks and recreations in undisturbed and heedless 
continuity. The sombre grey pile of the castle 
frowned at her with no hospitable mien like that which 
it was so easy to associate with the Dutch House. 
Here was no cosy summer residence of a prosperous 
merchant converted to the use and enjoyment of a 
Prince, but the abode of majesty itself, portentous, 
colossal, official, a place that from its exterior seemed 
to ridicule the notion that the voice of human emotions 
could ever rise above a whisper within those massive 
walls. 

Rage and despair alternately took possession of her 
as she waited vainly through the long morning for an 
answer to her request for an interview with His Royal 
Hio-hness. Towards four o'clock in the afternoon a 
messenger from the Castle brought a note to the inn 
where she waited. The Prince was unable to see any 
one, being deeply engaged in official business. The 
message was conveyed through the handwriting of a 
secretary. 

Clearly she could look for no quarter. It was late 
evening when she reached home to spend a sleepless 
night. She wished now that she had given her lover 
just cause for suspicion of her fidelity, and as the 
wish took shape in her brain her unconquerable love 
for him blotted it out in a mist of tears. He had 



286 PERDITA 

been coerced, misled, shamefully beguiled into this 
conduct. If only she could see him, speak with him. 
She took his letters from a cabinet, and the pain of 
her situation redoubled itself as the trifling incidents 
of these two years stared at her in his handwriting. 
In vain she sought to read in these artless effusions 
the duplicity of the accomplished libertine. 

In the morning she drove to Lord Maiden's house 
in Clarges Street. His manner was affable ; he re- 
ceived her communications with an air of concern all 
the more sincere in its appearance for the note of 
involuntary solicitude in his voice. 

" To fight with an unseen enemy is a thankless 
task," said she. 

He nodded his head. 

" His Royal Highness has been much occupied of 
late. The business of his new establishment has made 
him difiicult of access. But you may count upon my 
most earnest endeavours to dissipate this temporary 
misunderstanding as soon as I have the Prince's 
ear. 

She thanked him and withdrew. But a week passed 
and still she could gather no hope of satisfaction. To 
complicate matters, the daily prints had fastened upon 
the circumstances of the separation, which, with all the 
weapons of airy ridicule, was ascribed to the lady's 
inability to resist importunity in another quarter. " If 
your heart is impervious to my private sorrows," 
wrote Mary once again to the Prince, " you will show 
some regard for my public honour by dissociating 
yourself with all responsibility for these outrageous 
insinuations. I conjure you in this at least to render 
me justice." 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 287 

This time the Prince replies. The tone of his 
letter is lofty and chivalrous. Can she suppose for 
a moment that he sanctions such accusations ? Pie 
is assured they are as unfounded as unscrupulous. 
The mere knowledge that the morning sheets are 
sullied with such vile calumnies makes him loath to 
touch them, and he orders a precis of the news 
to be made, that he may avoid contact with such 
contamination. 

She snatches at this crumb of reparation, too hungry 
to cavil at its substitution for the whole loaf. When 
he sees through the machinations of her enemies, he 
will fly once more from the conspiracy of court 
interests to the calm shores of that Bohemia in which 
he had chanced on the rock of her unselfish devotion. 
With a lighter heart she turns to the day's satires on 
the separation. One talks of her as destined to follow 
Cleopatra's fate, and seek relief from her sorrows in 
" poisoned bowl or poniard's steel, or asp." Another 
pities the shepherdess ordered to " queen it no inch 
further, but milk her ewes and weep," and quotes at 
the " deserted fair " her own lines as Perdita : 

How often have I told you 'twould be thus ! 
How often said, my dignity would last 
But till 'twere known ! 

One by one she tosses aside the sheets. " When I 
see him," she reflects, " this whole artillery of slander 
shall bind him closer to me than before." 

Again she visits Maiden, acquaints him with the 
contents of the Prince's letter. He expresses un- 
bounded satisfaction, and hopes before long to efi^ect 
a meeting at his own house where their differences 



288 PERDITA 

may be finally adjusted. In a few days from this, 
George Prince signifies his pleasure at the prospect 
of meeting her once more. 

When Maiden introduces Mary into the room in 
which His Royal Highness is waiting, she finds him 
gazing out of window, as if rapt in contemplation. 
At the sound of the closing door he turns. The 
radiance of his greeting lifts her anew into the high 
certainty of his unchanged affection. What need 
has he to declare that he never ceased to love her, 
but that she has enemies who are exerting every effort 
to undermine her ? She scarcely hears the words 
in her joy at being once more in his presence. Is 
it the languor of melancholy or of fatigue that tinges 
his address ? His face looks white and worn. But 
she will know how to nurse the colour back into those 
cheeks and breathe new gaiety into those drooping 
spirits. As if to seal the new pact of their happiness, 
they part without a word of farewell. 

Swiftly she walks from Clarges Street to her own 
house. Summer is dead in the Park, but it lives 
in the light in her eyes, in her elastic step, in the royal 
carriage of her head, in the air of pride triumphant 
which distinguishes this lady as she goes. Hers is 
the summer of beauty rising invincible through a 
mist of sorrow and fear. 

Next morning Perdita is riding in Hyde Park. 
The " Vestris " light blue ribbons in her hat flutter 
with the breeze. Suddenly she discovers the figure 
of her lover sauntering beneath the tired foliage of late 
August. At a touch of the spur her horse bounds 
' in his direction. The thunder of hoofs causes Prince 
Florizel to raise his head, but as his eyes meet hers 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 289 

he drops it slowly again without a sign of recogni- 
tion, and turns with the deliberate ease of settled 
resolution to pursue his walk down a side path in 
the bend of which he is screened from her further 
observation. 



19 



XXX 

The King was infinitely relieved when Colonel Hotham 
was able to inform him that the Prince had definitely- 
broken off his connexion with Mrs. Robinson. He 
was only too glad not to know the circumstances of 
the rupture, nor did he waste any time in speculating 
how it had come about. It was enough for him that 
the end had come opportunely with the extension of 
the Prince's establishment. But it was not long before 
the matter had to be opened afresh to His Majesty. 
Hotham became aware through Lord Maiden that 
the Prince was still persecuted with letters from the 
lady, who was deeply in debt and appealed to her lover 
to come to her rescue. The Prince chafed under his 
inability to make a suitable reply. He had no money. 
He was sorry, very sorry, but what could he do ? 
Daily the situation was growing more embarrassing, for 
even the sorrow of an Heir Apparent was powerless to 
satisfy the demands of creditors. Still there would have 
been no need to bring the matter again before the 
King but for the contents of Mary's last letter to 
George Prince, in which a critical issue was presented. 
" Can you not stop this cataract of calumny which 
pours down on both our heads in the daily prints .? " 
she wrote. " Never will I believe that in acting thus 
cruelly towards me you are obeying the dictates of 
your own generous nature. But rather than suffer 

290 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 291 

this mountain of falsehood to grow any larger un- 
checked, I will unfold the story of our love in public. 
You will believe that it is very hard for me to unlock 
the golden chamber of my heart and expose the fine 
metal of our love to the broad glare of public scandal. 
But have I not your letters, as you have mine, to give 
the lie to the base interpretations which go un- 
challenged ? " 

That the Prince's letters must be secured at once 
before they could provide laughter to the sovereigns 
of Europe, was obvious ; that the lady would part with 
them at a price, was a conclusion odious but acceptable 
to the King goaded by the spur of such necessity. 
Nor did any scruples as to the honour of such a trans- 
action retard the activity of his advisers in this matter. 
When once the King had sufficiently overcome his 
humiliation to treat the situation in a practical light, 
his sense of economy bravely asserted itself. It was 
bad enough to have to pay money for the suppression 
of a scandal, but it would be wasteful to pay more 
than was absolutely necessary. He impressed Hotham 
with the need for exercising the greatest circumspection 
in this particular, for a commercial instinct often ran 
high in women of indifferent character, and it would 
be well to be on his guard at the very outset of the 
negociations against the impudence of an extravagant 
claim. 

Hotham saw his way to the conclusion of the 
business through an offer to pay such debts as had 
been made at the Prince's instigation. Mrs. Robinson 
was in no position to refuse such an offer, inasmuch 
as the suddenness of her catastrophe had brought 
an army of impatient and exorbitant creditors to 



2 92 PERDITA 

her very door. Hotham accordingly instructed Lord 
Maiden to ascertain the extent of the debts, to hint 
at the possibility of their settlement, but to impress 
upon the lady the condition of the immediate return 
of all the Prince's letters for payment of the money. 

The earlier part of Maiden's mission was accomplished 
easily enough. He was agreeably surprised to find that 
seven thousand pounds would cover the debts. The 
King flew into a rage at the mention of this sum ; he 
had yet to learn that his son could spend more than this 
amount on his clothes in a single year. His Majesty 
would not pay a penny more than five thousand pounds. 
Even this he considered an enormous sum which 
nothing but the urgency of the case could have wrung 
from him. Having ascertained the King's decision 
on this matter, Maiden now proceeded to execute the 
more delicate part of his task by acquainting Mary 
with the condition attached to this offer. As soon as 
he had spoken she looked at him in amazement. 

" Is it proposed to buy these letters from me ? " 
said she, as if in search of corroboration of what appeared 
scarcely credible. 

The diplomat spoke in his reply. 

" 'Tis with the greatest difficulty, madam, that His 
Majesty has been persuaded to take this matter at all 
into his consideration. But there is no proposal to 
buy these letters. The King has been brought to 
consider that it would be unjust to cause you incon- 
venience through the extravagance of his son, but 
His Majesty insists upon a similar obligation in you 
to save his son from the consequences of what he 
cannot help regarding as a youthful indiscretion, by 
the return of these letters." 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 293 

" I will not part with them," said Mary firmly. 

Lord Maiden looked calmly at her. 

" Then I must lament the circumstances which 
have placed me under the necessity of making this 
proposal to you." He turned and withdrew. 

Mrs. Darby found her daughter in tears. Never 
before had Mary shown herself so disconsolate. " They 
might have spared me this last indignity," she cries. 
Was the bitterness of futile self-reproach all that was 
left to her as a reward for the completeness of her 
surrender to one who was powerless now to save her 
even from insult ? Ever since she could remember 
the fascination exercised upon men by her beauty, they 
had striven to make her take an ignoble view of her 
own character. In the face of almost overwhelming 
odds she had fought the battle of constancy, taking 
a more and more gallant pleasure in ridiculing the 
cynic's philosophy of life as her knowledge of its depths 
and shallows increased with the practice of the stage. 
For her, the very lapse from conventional morality 
to which her love for the Prince had persuaded her, 
carried with it something of a moral impulse. It was 
the humiliation of this higher sense in the proposal 
made to her that affected her so profoundly. They 
were thrusting upon her naked shoulders the odious 
garb of a corrupt, a venal mendicancy. She shuddered 
at the touch of that vile robe. 

Mrs. Darby, while pitying her, condemned her 
scruples. Had she reckoned the price of indulging 
such sensibilities.'' Were innocent people to be 
defrauded of their money to save her from the humilia- 
tion of parting with these letters ? Had she not 
forfeited by her conduct the claim to a consideration 



294 PERDITA 

so ruinous to others ? Lightly enough she had borne 
the burden of her folly until the full measure of its 
weight had been brought home to her. Was she 
entitled now to cast it from her, regardless of the 
injury to those on whom it fell ? 

To these questions Mary can find no answer. A 
whole afternoon she sits brooding over these letters. 
She must give them up, not at the request of the 
lover, but because his father wished to blot out all 
traces of her existence in her lover's life. Again and 
again in the interest of the King she had saved the 
Prince from committing some act of unfilial rebellion. 
Was this to count for nothing .? One by one she 
turns the sheets of these singular records in which all 
the folly of eighteen grins and capers in the gilded 
frame of a Prince's equipment. Why should she not 
copy the most cherished among these effusions ? 

Soon her pen runs busily in the execution of the 
simple task. Her choice of examples is puzzling, but 
a world of unwritten memories rises before her in the 
barest, the most trivial expressions, and before 
rhapsodical flights of poetry she chooses the lame 
prose of a message to meet her at dinner or some 
witless chatter about the Prince's health. Suddenly 
she starts as if surprised at happening upon something 
which she had forgotten. Steadily, but for this passing 
interruption, she pursues her task to its end. When 
next Mrs. Darby sees her daughter, she reads resigna- 
tion in her face. Lord Maiden is sent for. Mary 
does not see him, but her mother presents him with 
the letters. Their interview is formal and involves 
little speaking. On being assured that these are all 
the letters, he takes his departure and drives at once 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 295 

to Colonel Hotham, who posts to Windsor with 
the precious parcel the same night. The King has 
gone to bed, but at nine o'clock next morning he 
gains access to His Majesty, who summons a page 
immediately on Hotham's withdrawal and orders a 
fire to be lighted. The boy looks surprised at so 
unusual a command at such a season, for it is only 
the twenty-eighth of August. 

As soon as the King is alone, he takes the parcel 
and places it in the fire. For a moment or two it 
resists the creeping flames, then bursts into flame and 
burns steadily for some minutes. George the Third 
watches it from his writing-table, and when the last 
flicker has died out, takes up his pen to write instruc- 
tions to Lord North to pay Hotham the five thousand 
pounds. A gathering sorrow rises in his heart as ' 
he writes the circumstances of this transaction to his 
minister, and when the heaviness of that task is over, 
he sinks back in his chair with the fatigue of one 
on whom sudden calamity has heaped an age more 
crushing than the mere advance of years. But he 
does not rest for long. 

Glancing at the clock he adds " 9.40 a.m." to the 
superscription of his letter, which he folds and seals, 
and then rings a bell for a messenger. The rest of 
the morning passes in official business. The mails 
from Holland and Flanders have come in the day 
before. The stage reached in the mediation of the 
Empress of Russia between Great Britain and the 
United Provinces needs close study. At one o'clock 
Colonel Hotham sends in a request for an immediate 
audience. 

" How now ^ " says the King, with majestic im- 



296 PERDITA 

patience when the Colonel makes his reappearance. 
The man is flurried and nervous, and scarcely knows 
how to frame in words the communication he is bound 
to make. Lord Maiden has ascertained from the Prince 
the existence of the bond, and is eager to know if it 
was included in the surrendered batch of his letters. 

" Bond ! What bond ? " says the King, taking 
fright at the word. 

" His Royal Highness gave a bond for the payment 
of twenty thousand pounds on his coming of age," 
says Hotham. " It can have no legal value, for it 
was made during minority, but its existence in the 
hands of this lady might be a source of trouble." 

*' I do not know what was in the parcel you brought 
me," says His Majesty in a failing voice. " I put 
it in the fi.re." 

He thought in silence for a few moments, and then 
rose with a gesture of despair and a look on his face 
which showed that he thought it improbable that the 
bond had been surrendered. Hotham asked leave 
to withdraw, and as the King waved him impatiently 
from his presence he heard his master babbling in 
German in a voice from which all the majesty had 
gone. It was like the voice of a child whimpering 
at a punishment inflicted for another's fault. 



XXXI 

About this time Mr. Fox lodged in St. James's Street, 
and as soon as he rose, which was very late (for he 
spent the night in gaming with his disciples at Brookes's) 
he held a levee at which, often in the careless deshabille 
of his nightgown, he expounded his political principles 
to his followers. George Prince conceived a great 
affection for the rising statesman, whom he addressed 
as "My dear Charles," and he attended these levees 
with all the more delight for the knowledge that his 
father loathed Fox, and that many a bright jest at the 
King's expense was made on these occasions. 

Seven years before, His Majesty had written of 
Fox as a young man destitute of common honour 
and honesty, and Lord North had dismissed him from 
office. Now, Lord North was approaching the close 
of his long and disastrous ministry, and the Whigs 
were gathering in force round the person of the Prince. 
It was not, however, until March 1782 that Fox became 
Foreign Secretary with Lord Shelburne under the 
Marquis of Rockingham. The two secretaries fell 
out grievously, for Shelburne wished to evade the 
express recognition of American independence in an 
acknowledgment of the joint treaty between America 
and France, while Fox made a desperate attempt to 
force upon the Government a direct and unconditional 

297 



298 PERDITA 

recognition. On the first of July Rockingham died, 
and a day later Fox resigned. 

It was not long before his frequent visits to Mary, 
who now lived in Berkeley Square in a house command- 
ing a view of Lord Shelburne's mansion, became the 
talk of the town. His absence from Brookes's added 
emphasis to the circumstance, which (so far from con- 
cealing) he seemed eager to publish abroad by driving 
about with the lady in her carriage. Walpole, with 
an audacity in such matters which rarely led him on 
the wrong scent, jumped swiftly to the cynical conclu- 
sion. *' Pour se desennuyer" he wrote, " he lives with 
Mrs. Robinson, goes to Sadler's Wells with her and 
is all day figuring away with her." Selwyn made a 
joke about the appropriateness of the connexion between 
the Man of the People with the Woman of the People. 
But when a friend boldly asked Fox for the reason 
which kept him so completely from the company of 
his associates, he was met with the reply, " I have 
pledged myself to the public to have a strict eye on 
Lord Shelburne's motives ; that is my sole motive for 
residing in Berkeley Square." This was to confess 
more than could have been expected. If he lived in 
Berkeley Square, what room was there for any alterna- 
tive interpretation of his frequent visits in the same 
neighbourhood } 

He had not forgotten the evenings in the Green 
Room of Drury Lane Theatre, and when Mary's plight 
became known to him, all the chivalry in his nature 
rose in her defence. She had abandoned the stage and 
had been warned against the perils of reappearance 
while the waves of a public scandal were still beating 
high about her name. She had a child to support. 




From a photograph of the picture by Johann Zoffany. R.A. 

CHARLES JAMES FOX. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 299 

The bond still remained in her possession, and it was 
the Prince's earnest wish that his promise should be 
honoured in the substance. He recoiled at the thounfht 
of appearing unhandsome in the matter. Yet he was 
powerless to act himself. Could not his dear Charles 
help him ? Charles welcomed the suggestion hilariously. 
He did not doubt for a moment the propriety of seeing 
a lady through a desperate situation, whoever she 
might be. This lady moreover provided an excellent 
opportunity for consolidating his alliance with the 
Prince. If all was fair in love and war, why not also 
in politics ? That Perdita should add the force of her 
beauty to the Opposition, touched his sense of humour. 
Everything which could help to disconcert the King's 
passion for economy was a source of satisfaction to the 
man who, in extravagance, was almost a match for the 
Prince himself. 

To be as chivalrous as he was gallant, was a deep 
instinct in Fox's nature ; and while he would have been 
the first to contend that chivalry and gallantry might 
go hand-in-hand, he would have been the last to assert 
that they must be inseparable companions. As he was 
well aware, he could no more fall in Jove with Perdita 
than with the Decalogue. Such ethereal beauty as 
hers almost frightened him. But he smiled as he 
reflected that in taking up her case few people would 
credit him with disinterested motives. Those few 
could be trusted to see through the paradox of his 
behaviour, and he rejoiced at the prospect of magnify- 
ing the error of popular cynicism (with the lady's 
consent), by associating his name with hers in public 
as closely as possible. 

Mary entered with spirit into this novel kind of 



300 PERDITA 

alliance. She regarded Mr. Fox, who was her senior by 
nine years, in the light of a favourite uncle privileged 

' from her childhood to tease and jest with her. Out 
of his company she was often dejected ; the negociations 
for establishing her claims to assistance through the 
bond were long and tortuous, and her pride was still in 
arms against the indignity of figuring as a pauper 
begging alms. But Mr. Fox knew how to steer her 
course through the turbid waters of unavailing regret. 
In public, he revelled in his role as the second Florizel 
to this Perdita ; in private, Diana herself could not 
have commanded more reverence from him than Mary. 
At her request alone he suffered Lord Maiden to con- 
tinue his visits, nor did he seek explanations from her 
concerning the assiduities of another visitor, the 
cherished soldier of Clinton and Cornwallis, who had 
returned a year before, after distinguished service in 
America, only to meet with a cold reception from his 

^ Sovereign, who detested the Whig in him. " Well," 
said His Majesty in a private conference with this 
Colonel Tarleton, " you have been in a great many 
actions, had a great many escapes." The insult was 
not lost on one whose motto, swift^ vigilant^ and bold, 
did not belie his character. 

In the presence of Lord Maiden and Colonel 
Tarleton, Mary received the visit of a city gentleman, 
who without any introduction had written to her, 
offering twenty guineas for ten minutes' conversation. 
The unblushing petition was only one among many 
with which she continued to be besieged. With the 
consent of her friends it was agreed to make an example 
of this gentleman, who was accordingly encouraged by 
a suitable reply to pay a visit at an appointed hour. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 301 

Tarleton's piercing black eyes twinkled merrily when 
the visitor was announced, and at once betrayed in the 
sudden solemnity of his face the disappointment he 
felt in finding the lady in the company of others. But 
Mary gravely detached her watch from her side, laid 
it on the table, and abruptly breaking off her con- 
versation with her friends, addressed the stranger in 
her liveliest vein until the expiration of the ten minutes. 
She then rose from her chair, rang the bell, and on the 
servant entering, desired him to open the door for her 
visitor, who retired in confusion, leaving twenty guineas 
in the hall. A few days later he received receipts for 
five guineas from four charitable institutions. 

If Fox's efforts to secure for the Prince what seemed 
to him a suitable allowance on his twenty-first birthday 
were unsuccessful, he enjoyed at least the satisfaction 
of being appointed to arbitrate in the matter of Mrs. 
Robinson's claims. As a consideration for her resigna- 
tion of a lucrative profession at the particular request 
of His Royal Highness, she was granted an annuity of 
five hundred pounds a year, half of which was to 
descend to her daughter on her decease. The King 
neither forgot nor forgave what he regarded as Fox's 
evil influence over his son, and George Prince began 
an era of extravagance and folly at Carlton House 
which in the magnitude of its excesses almost blotted 
all memory of his earlier indiscretion from the pages 
of history. 

To escape from the tiresome notoriety into which 
she had again been drawn by the settlement of her 
claim and the gallant patronage of Mr. Fox, Mary 
now spends a couple of months in Paris. But the 
audacious addresses of the Duke of Orleans soon draw 



302 PERDITA 

upon her the attention of the French court. The 
Duke is an Anglomaniac, and in spite of herself Mary 
becomes the rage in the French capital. The presence 
of la belle Anglaise at an opera or play is a social event, 
and her box is El Dorado for the young men of fashion. 
The Duke presses his suit with no less confidence than 
ardour. But Mary is inexorable, and his friend Armand 
de Gontaut smiles at the conspicuous failure of a 
devotion so rarely lavished without its full reward. 
'^ She is a rose between two thorns," he exclaims as 
he watches her in the garden of Mousseau on the 
night of her birthday, when the Duke of Orleans has 
organised a fete in her honour and the naked trees 
have been hung with artificial flowers. For throughout 
the evening she walks with the venerable Sir John 
Lambert on one side and a dull German lady on the 
other, nor does she even notice that the coloured lamps 
in every tree have been cunningly disposed to display 
the initial letters of la belle Anglaise. 

Never had Mousseau looked fairer in its jewelled 
arbours and embowered statues than on that evening. 
Prodigal fancy could indeed devise no more enchanting 
scene. Men and women whispered and laughed in 
those dim pavilions with which the gardens were 
dotted. The beauty and the chivalry of France 
revelled there in mask and music ; and as if to 
compel Nature herself into the service of an aristocrat's 
recreation, a number of mechanical nightingales warbled 
their mimic melodies into the night air. 

Compared with a spectacle like this, the pleasure- 
gardens of London on a gala night were vulgar, a mere 
galaxy of gas lamps. But Mary's thoughts were out 
of France, She had received melancholy news from 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 303 

Banastre Tarleton ; his affairs were deeply involved. 
Those American campaigns had fostered in him a 
dangerous indifference to the orderly control of money. 
He was reckless rather than extravagant, and in him 
the instinct to give, rose easily superior to the lust 
to possess. Although he had been but a year in the 
metropolis, people had borrowed large sums of money 
from him, as honest in their intentions of repaying 
him in full as they were incapable of fulfilling them. 
" I have only myself to blame in this," he wrote, " but 
unless I can soon find means to satisfy my creditors, 
I, who never yet fled from the enemy's cannon, shall 
be obliged to take refuge from my native land abroad. 
Your presence in France tempts me thither." 

The circumstances of his distress recalled to Mary 
her own in the early days of her marriage ; and all 
the glitter of Mousseau in its brightest robes was 
unable to dispel the sadness of her reflections. Yet 
it was a sadness sweetened by the knowledge of her 
capacity to help him. In her reply she declared her 
intention of returning home shortly and urged him 
to wait her arrival. Her daughter, who was now eight 
years old, was delighted at the prospect of being so 
soon again in England. She disliked the French society 
in which her mother moved, and showed an outspoken 
mistrust of the Duke of Orleans which amused if it 
sometimes disconcerted Mary. 

Soon after the fete at Mousseau the Queen of France 
sent the Duke with a message to the fair English 
lady, inviting her presence at a public dinner. Mary 
had all but completed her arrangements for departure, 
but to refuse would have appeared ungracious. As 
she was being dressed for the occasion she remembered 



304 PERDITA 

the night at Vauxhall when Mr. Fitzgerald had enter- 
tained the company by his anecdotes of the French 
court, and they had drunk a toast to the lovehest 
sovereign in Europe. For a moment she wondered 
what had become of this fiery charmer, and then turned 
to submit herself to the offices of a maid who stood 
ready with a pot of rouge to stain the natural radiance 
of her lady's cheeks in conformity with the ruling 
French fashion. Mademoiselle Bertin (the eminent 
milliner) looked critically at her own handiwork as 
Mary stood before her mirror in a train and body 
of green lustring with a tiffany petticoat festooned 
with bunches of pale lilac embroidery. The dress had 
been chosen and executed in a hurry. Mademoiselle 
Bertin spoke of it as a shot in the dark, for this 
artist was accustomed to study her clients minutely 
for many days before hazarding a line that might 
curve too sharply or a scheme of colour that might 
predominate to the verge of indiscretion. But Fate 
and the lady were on her side in this instance. 
" Cest un poeme inspire par la beaut e de Madame" 
she said in a dry impersonal voice, as if she were 
speaking of another's work. 

The Queen appeared to endorse Mademoiselle 
Bertin's opinion, for her gaze was fixed again and 
again on Mary at the Grand Convert. A slender 
crimson cord alone separated the royal table from the 
crowd of staring spectators, Marie Antoinette was 
but a few years senior to her English guest. She too 
had been married at the age of fifteen, and more 
than once she glanced with marked curiosity at the 
miniature portrait of the Prince of Wales which Mary 
wore on her bosom. On the following day she com- 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 305 

missioned the Duke of Orleans to request the loan of 
the painting for a few hours, and on returning it 
through the same messenger bade him carry to the 
owner a purse which she had netted with her own 
hand. 



20 



XXXII 

On her way back to London, Mary's thoughts were 
busy with the misfortunes of Colonel Tarleton. Com- 
passion for his distress mingled itself with the memory 
of his spirited courtship. How quickly he had pene- 
trated the secret of her masquerade under the protection 
of Mr, Fox ! Again and again she had sought to 
divert the fire of his glances by some allusion to " dear 
Charles " that might cheek that ardour ; but he had 
only laughed at Charles's fat legs, and in the very 
presence of his friend had continued to sigh and 
languish with comic frankness under the influence 
of the lady's beauty. When at last he learned the 
whole circumstances from which had sprung this 
occasion for an elaborate practical joke at the expense 
of the public, his delight in her presence had been 
redoubled. And yet his sense of comedy had risen 
with the development of his passion for her, so that 
the tacit agreement never to speak of Fox except 
as of her recognised lover had carried them through 
all the humours of enlivening make-believe into the 
deeper waters of strong personal regard for each other. 
In America, as he made no scruple of telling her, he had 
pursued the ladies with no less vigour than the enemy, 
and he loved to expatiate in his whimsical way upon 
the historical association of Mars with Venus. When 
they talked of the war, he laughed a little at what 

306 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 307 

he thought her exaggerated admiration of American 
ideas of liberty — " the human plant of liberty " as 
she had called it, thereby disclosing an affection for 
rhetorical ornament. Their conversation had been of 
this when he attended her to the coach which had 
taken her to Dover on her way to Paris. She recalled 
it now as she journeyed back through scenes made 
so recently familiar. 

" My heart is with the champions of independence 
in those happy provinces, " she had said. 

" But you are an Englishwoman." 

" My father was born in America." 

" Then farewell to the lover who fought against 
that father." 

She had corrected him. Captain Darby was loyalist. 
She had nodded to his question if this was the Captain 
Darby who had recently distinguished himself in 
the waters of Gibraltar, where he had fought the 
Spaniards until the rigging of his small ordnance 
vessel was almost destroyed. 

England had little but fair words to offer as a reward 
for bravery, she reflected, as she compared Tarleton's 
reception by the King with her father's reception by 
the Admiralty. Darby had left England in disgust 
after a visit that did duty for greeting as well as 
farewell to his family. He had refused to answer 
all inquiry as to his intentions. Tarleton's bravery 
had shone like a star in the black night of those 
American campaigns, but England would let him die 
in a debtor's prison rather than relieve his distress. 

On her arrival in London she wasted no time 
before repairing to his lodgings. But she was too 
late. The Colonel had gone. Where .'' Nobody 



3o8 PERDITA 

knew. He had been ill these last days, appeared to 
be much worried, and had frequently come home late 
in the evening after being away all day. Such were 
the scraps of information collected with difficulty from 
the woman who kept the lodging-house. She seemed 
suspicious of visitors and reluctant, as if in the interests 
of her late lodger, to satisfy their curiosity. Mary liked 
her, and let fall an unguarded expression of sorrow 
at coming too late to be of any service to her friend. 
At this the woman brightened : nearly all his visitors 
of late had come to persecute him. His last instructions 
had been to keep in her charge a note which she 
was to destroy if the lady for whom it was intended 
did not appear within two days after his departure. 
It was scarcely necessary for Mary to declare her 
name, for the woman was satisfied by the agitation 
of her visitor that this was indeed the lady to whom 
the Colonel had addressed his note. 

In less than an hour Mary was driving to the port 
indicated in that hurried message from Banastre. He 
was to take ship early the next morning. With luck 
and frequent change of horses she might yet save him 
from the necessity of this ignominious exile. 

Had less depended on their meeting, the battle with 
time and distance would have braced her spirits. Even 
on the night when she had hurried to Windsor to 
fight her way to an audience with the Prince, the 
drive had lent a kind of desperate solace to her despair. 
But time was of less moment then than now, and 
this distance was six times the other. As night fell 
she still had half the journey before her. No sultry 
air of late summer fanned her as she went, no winking 
stars paled in an opalescent sky towards morning. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 309 

This was a night of mid-winter, bleak and black, 
bare of all promise of fine weather for the morrow. 
She saw the steam rise from the panting horses in 
the dim light of the carriage lanterns, and an icy- 
wind lashed her eyes and mouth as it rushed through 
the windows which she was too tired or too indifferent 
to close. She dreamed of a tempest-tost sea, and 
of herself standing helpless on shore as she watched 
the ship that bore away her lover rise fluttering like 
a wounded bird and sink out of sight behind the 
waves. Each time it disappeared, the terror seized her 
lest it should be to rise no more. But the black beak 
of the mast swam up again into her vision with 
lugubrious persistence. Sometimes she fancied herself 
near the vessel, poised, as it were, over the waters, and 
her ears were filled with the hissing of the surf, the 
crash of the rollers against the hull, the creaking and 
groaning of timber. Anxiety, fatigue, and cold had 
worked such mischief in her, that at the stations where 
the horses were changed through the night she was 
conscious of little but shouting voices, moving lights, 
the sound of heavy boots on paved courtyards. 

Towards morning the cold grew intenser, but she 
was sensible of something alight within her like a tiny 
furnace, powerful enough to defy the cold of icier 
regions than this. Her face was stiffs as an iron mask, 
but this creeping warmth took slow possession of her 
body, lulling her into a false security as the post-chaise 
clattered in the light of winter sunrise over the cobbled 
stones of a fishing-village. The salt smell of the air 
whipped her drowsy senses. It came in sharp gusts of 
a stifi^ening wind that blew like a sheet upon her as 
she passed one gap after another in the narrow winding 



3IO PERDITA 

street. Suddenly the post-chaise stopped at a tavern 
on a tiny quay. She heard the sea beating restlessly 
against the masonry of the harbour in which a few 
masts were dancing madly like the blades of fencers 
that dip and circle before they cross. 

The parlour of the tavern was empty, but from the 
adjacent room came the noise of sailors cursing and 
jesting in a strange confusion of laughter and alterca- 
tion. Breathlessly Mary listened for her lover's voice. 
What place had he, who had earned so well of King 
and country, among these blaspheming enemies of law 
and government ? 

Occasionally she fumbled nervously for the money 
sewn in her dress. This was all she had stayed to 
do before setting out to his rescue. Suppose he had 
gone already : she would scarcely escape unrobbed 
from that company. What matter ? From the quay 
came the sound of the hauling of ropes and the rolling 
of barrels, and above her head some one was tramping 
heavily about the room, singing a sailor's chanty. 

On a table by her side was a model of a battleship 
under a glass case. What a plaything for Maria ! the 
child was always talking of the sea, and they had often 
played together at pirates. Would the landlord sell 
this to her ? She walked to a window to look out 
upon the quay and was surprised that her limbs moved 
so reluctantly. Outside, the waves were bursting in 
clouds of spray that fell on the stone flags with the 
patter of sudden rain and shpped back hissing over 
the edge of the quay. The signboard of the inn 
creaked as it swung on its hinges, and at the spreading 
of a sail in the harbour the wind rattled with the noise 
of musketry in its onslaught on the canvas. 




From a mezzotint by J. R. Smith, after the picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds, P.R. A. 
COLONEL TARLETON. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 311 

Mary turned from the terror of that prospect to 
face the trim little parlour with its model ship riding 
motionless in a puckered sea of blue velvet. Soon she 
must be discovered. How would she explain her 
presence ? How even ask a question about the man 
she had come to seek ? Under what name had he 
concealed his identity in such company ? Upstairs a 
door was opened and the descent of heavy footsteps 
nearing the parlour warned her that her solitude was 
at an end. A head was thrust through the half-open 
door, but was withdrawn quickly, and she heard a low 
whistle, and thought she heard the muttered ejacula- 
tion "a woman ! " 

She ran to the door whispering his name loudly. In 
the passage he turned and they stood silently facing 
each other. In a moment his cloak was round her and 
they ran swiftly from the tavern, up the narrow street, 
past the low, shuttered houses. But before she had 
gone many paces her legs stiffened, and she nearly fell. 
He caught her in his arms and carried her. She felt his 

CD 

arm gripping her shoulder and tried to call to him to 
loosen that tight grasp, but the words would not come. 

When she recovered consciousness, she felt the 
steady motion of a carriage. Outside, the snow was 
falling in thick flakes. She thought she was in 
Labrador, and that the man on the seat opposite her 
was her father. Why were the windows closed } It 
was not cold. It was hot. She tried to move, but the 
shawls clung so closely about her that she gave up the 
effort to disengage herself. She heard her name. Did 
she hear it ? Or was it only fancy ^ That voice was 
not her father's. That hand ? 

Tarleton looked tenderly at her. 



312 PERDITA 

" They will have set sail by now," he said. 

*' Then I have come in time to save you." 

" You have risked your life in my interest. But 
for you I should have been tossed about on that sea 
in that company." He shuddered. 

The picture of the tavern parlour rose in her mind 
like a memory of something remote, half obscured by 
a long lapse of time. Yet it was only a few hours 
since she had waited there and wondered if her journey 
had been in vain. To make away at once, as soon as 
he discovered her presence, was their only chance, for 
these smugglers were desperate men and would have 
stuck at nothing to avoid the risk of betrayal which 
they would infer from his defection. He reckoned 
accurately enough, however, that they would not waste 
much time in searching for their new confederate. 
The perils of the sea for them were light enough in 
comparison with the prospect of discovery by a spy in 
the service of the Government. 

" You will take this — for my sake," said Mary, 
unfastening the money from the lining of her dress 
and giving it to her lover, as the carriage windows 
showed her the welcome lights of the city. The tears 
sprang into his eyes as he kissed her, and he shook 
with fear at the touch of that burning: forehead. 
London was asleep by the time they reached Berkeley 
Square and he had difficulty in rousing her servants. 
It was her faithful negro who first answered his repeated 
raps on the door. Soon the whole household was astir. 
Gently they lifted her from the carriage and bore her 
upstairs into that bed from which she did not rise for 
six long months during which the flame of her life 
flickered almost to extinction. 



XXXIII 

Mrs. Armstead satisfied the Whig politicians, but she 
soon wearied Prince P'lorizel. Once more an abandoned 
mistress of royalty took refuge under the protecting 
wing of Fox, but this time the statesman was caught, 
and happily caught too in the toils of his own humanity. 
He not only lived with her, but loved her and 
ultimately married her. A youth whose cherished 
dream was to become a poet king naturally preferred 
the sound of sweet music to the political chatter of 
place-seekers ; and even the masterly speeches of his 
friend Charles were dull when compared with the 
sustained sonority of Mrs. Billington's middle notes 
in a popular ballad of the day. For a brief space 
George Prince forgot the grossness of the lady's 
person in the glory of her voice, until reality rent 
a gaping hole in the veil of his enchantment and he 
was reduced to the necessity of admitting that he was 
only happy in her society when he shut his eyes and 
opened his ears. Soon he was basking in the smiles 
of her rival, Mrs. Crouch, until the guileless creature 
was carried out of the royal favour on floods of 
burgundy and champagne. The pleasures of intoxica- 
tion were regarded by the Prince as an exclusively male 
privilege which should be jealously guarded, and even 
Fox ^nd Sheridan were compelled into astonishment 
at the audacity with which he practised this privilege, 

313 



314 PERDITA 

In a very few years from the time of his establish- 
ment this artless impostor was confronted with a very 
different picture from that of the dainty Prince 
Florizel he had fancied himself to be indeed. He had 
looked with tender condescension upon himself as 
the august patron of Shakespeare who had brought 
the poet up to date, as it were, in pinning the 
diamond buckles of his princely invention upon the 
feet of a living Perdita. But now with all the conse- 
quences of his folly about him he stood in the garb 
of Silenus beneath the blazing chandeliers of Carlton 
House. Was it surprising that the credit had been 
utterly ruined of an Heir Apparent whose cook had 
become his confidant, whose tailor had enjoyed 
the doubtful distinction of bailing him out of the 
watch tower after a night of prolonged dissipation ^ 
Already he had had to shut up a part of Carlton 
House and sell his horses by auction, when in the 
spring of the year 1787 he was forced to ask Parliament 
for a sum of money to liquidate his debts. It was 
humiliating for one whose fancy loved to linger idly 
in the architectural monstrosities of his Chinese 
Pavilion at Brighthelmstone, to disclose the details 
of his private expenditure to a curious public con- 
sisting of his future subjects. 

Fox's father, to help his son out of a similar 
predicament, had paid a hundred and forty thousand 
pounds out of his private pocket ; and forty pounds 
a day had not been spent on cake alone, to say nothing 
of caudle, at Charles's christening. 

Towards the end of May, after much wrangling 
that could not fail to impress the Prince as sordid 
and unnecessary. Parliament voted a sum of little 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 315 

more than twenty thousand pounds in excess of what 
Fox obtained through a father's bounty. It was all 
the more humiliating because of George Prince's 
inability to fling the money back into the nation's 
face in the royal fashion which became him so well. 

But not only had Parliament peeped and pried 
into those minutiae of his expenditure of which he 
would have scorned to acknowledge even the existence, 
but also it had asked particulars of the rumour that 
ran of his marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert, and had 
claimed the right to be satisfied as to the actual 
state of the matter. A most indelicate request, which, 
George Prince decided, did not merit a truthful reply. 
A most unchivalrous behaviour to the lady, whose 
serenity would be less ruffled by appearing as a 
partner in a splendid intrigue than as the pitiable 
victim of a marriage made illegal by two Acts of 
Parliament. That she was married had satisfied her 
conscience ; that he should expose the futility of 
that marriage by openly confessing it, would hurt 
her pride. When Fox asked him the truth about 
the matter, he therefore conceived it to be the 
gentlemanly, the handsome thing, to betray his friend 
and lie ; and the lie was so well told that Fox 
repeated it in perfect good faith in the House of 
Commons and misled the country. 

The raising of this question agitated George Prince 
far more deeply than the mere matter of money. It 
recalled to him the long and painful courtship of this 
lady two years before. He was reminded of how 
in the earlier stages of her apparent insensibility to his 
distress he had wanted to stab himself ; for although 
the cloak of Florizel was even then fast slipping from 



3i6 PERDITA 

his shoulders, there had been moments in which he 
still grasped at it and touched the hem of it as it 
fell. Mrs. Fitzherbert was dangerously near thirty 
when first they met at Richmond, and already she 
had been twice a widow when she was married to the 
. Prince at her house in Park Lane. 

Yet it was not of his wife that George Prince was 
thinking as he sat in his box at the Opera a few 
nights after his embarrassments had been settled by 
a vote in Parliament. Whatever the nation might 
do to repair his financial credit, it was powerless, he 
reflected bitterly, to rehabilitate his credit as a lover ; 
and this distressed him, for he was haunted by the 
beauty of Elizabeth Harrington and was at a loss 
to know how to make overtures to one whose 
goodness seemed to permeate the very air in which 
she walked. Marriage would have seemed a small 
price to pay for her surrender, but even he disliked 
the notion of bigamy, and if he wooed her as Prince, 
he knew enough of his own reputation to feel sure 
that he stood no chance of gaining her consent. 
Laetitia Lade, the wife of the young baronet who 
used to appear so frequently at Mary's card parties 
in Covent Garden, suggested that he should act 
incognito ; and as he now sat listening to the tinkling 
music of the celebrated Signor Paisiello, he was 
wondering what name and character to adopt in a 
novel adventure which engrossed his attentions all the 
more for the difficulties it presented. 

Instead of leaving the Opera House at the fall 
of the curtain and passing through the private door 
reserved for his use, he dismissed his suite and entered 
one of the waiting-rooms in which a moving crowd 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 317 

of spectators had assembled to gossip until the arrival 
of their equipages at the main entrance was announced 
by the liveried attendant at the door. Soon he became 
the centre of a circle of acquaintances who eagerly 
grasped this opportunity of making a public bow to 
the Heir Apparent. It was observed that His Royal 
Highness was unusually distrait, for he gave but 
half his attention to the conversation, and seemed to 
be always looking through gaps in the circle as if 
in the hope of discovering somebody in another part 
of the room. His mind was, in fact, still occupied 
with the problem of choosing an appropriate character 
as incognito, and he thought to obtain suggestions 
among the macaronies who moved about with in- 
creasing distinctness for the observer, as the solemn 
voice of the servant summoned more and more people 
from the House. 

His immediate intention was diverted, however, 
by the strange spectacle of a young woman of 
fashionable appearance in whom a conspicuous beauty 
struggled almost to the point of success to overcome 
the marks of illness and suffering. She was seated 
on a table ; the ease with which she turned her head 
and the grace with which she acknowledged the 
recognition of one person after another formed an 
arresting contrast to a rigidness in the attitude of 
her body that stamped itself as involuntary. A rare ' 
delicacy in the distinction of her costume helped still 
further to emphasise the singularity of her position. 
While the Prince's eyes followed her movements with 
increasing fascination, she was approached by two 
liveried servants who took from their pockets long 
white sleeves, which they drew on their arms. They 



31 8 PERDITA 

then lifted her up and bore her across the room. As 
they passed the Prince he was observed to shudder 
shghtly and make a low inclination of the head. But 
about the lips of the paralysed lady hovered a smile 
of unspeakable sweetness, and the tired eyes of Mary 
Robinson shone with a sudden lustre as she was borne 
past the bowed head of her lover to the carriage that 
awaited her at the entrance to the Opera House. 



XXXIV 

Repeated strokes of misfortune had broken the 
spirits no less than the body of Mary since the night 
of her fatal journey to the rescue of Banastre Tarleton. 
The fever had left her a cripple, and before long it 
had become clear to her physicians that in the best 
case she whose walk had been, in the freedom of its 
movement, like a challenge to infirmity, would never 
■walk again without the aid of crutches. She had bathed 
for two successive winters in the waters of Aix-la- 
Chapelle ; but neither the rose leaves with which her 
admiring friends caused the surface of the water to 
be covered, nor the serenades which they sang under 
her windows, could chase the fury of pain from her 
limbs ; nor did a course of mud baths at St. Amand, 
to which she consented before her return to England, 
prove any more serviceable. 

Banastre was devoted in his attentions to her and 
spared himself no trouble to obtain recreation and 
amusement for her in the hours in which her mind 
was not occupied in battling with her afflictions. 
It was long before he ceased to load himself with 
reproaches for the follies of his own conduct which 
had involved her in such disaster. She was com- 
pelled to insist upon his silence on a topic which, as 
she assured him with all the persuasiveness of her 
affection, could not be broached without adding to 

319 



320 PERDITA 

her miseries. For, that she had saved him in the 
hour of his need, was a source of consolation to her 
which she strove hard to keep unalloyed. 

She was in Germany when the extraordinary history 
of Mr. Fitzgerald was revealed to her in the reports 
of his joint trial with a man called Brecknock who 
had acted as his literary agent in a series of circum- 
stances conspicuous to this day and likely to be 
conspicuous for all time in the annals of crime. 

Mary had known Fitzgerald as the importunate 
lover with a style in dress and conversation that dis- 
tinguished him agreeably from the world of macaronies 
in which he moved. In the field of gallantry she had 
recognised in him the perfect type of the dangerous 
man. Whether he stormed or sighed at a lady's feet, 
it was no practised system of courtship but the natural 
ebullition of an amorous temperament. His repentance 
for wounding the feelings of a lady was never the less 
sincere for the desperate and often unscrupulous ardour 
with which he pursued her against what she imagined 
(erroneously in his eyes) to be her own inclinations. 
In the reports of the trial which now reached her, 
this irresistible creature, with " a manner beautifully in- 
teresting towards women," figured as duellist, homicide, 
lawbreaker and despiser of all law, human or divine. 

His most charitable supporters in his own country 
supposed him to be mad, and told anecdotes of his 
wild hunts at night when the inmates of the farmhouses 
awoke in terror at his unearthly hallooing and the 
rush of hounds and horse through their silent neigh- 
bourhoods. But all protest was useless and even 
stimulated him to fresh acts of defiance. He had 
always been whimsical, and with the multiplication of 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 321 

his whims in the last ten years, the principle that his 
whim must be law at any cost, had grown into a settled 
conviction. Thus on visiting some friends he com- 
plained that the face of a guest was disagreeable to 
him at the dinner-table, and insisted, with threats of 
the most terrible consequences if he were disobeyed, 
on the man's removal. But his violence rose to a 
chmax in the treatment of his own family. He con- 
ceived himself to be wronged in the testamentary 
disposition of a father who made no secret of a natural 
preference for a less truculent brother. This was 
enough for George Robert : he would have justice. 
Not the justice which could be reluctantly forced from 
the law, but the justice which an individual whose 
claim to be obeyed rested on no intelligible sanction 
whatever could compel by the exercise of unflinching 
violence. He accordingly imprisoned his brother, and 
even employed a man to shoot him. The hired 
assassin missed fi.re and returned to Fitzgerald with the 
news that he had failed in his commission, whereupon 
Fitzgerald shot him like a dog, and buried him in 
his clothes. 

In the same year he captured his father and con- 
fined him to Rockfield House. After generously but 
vainly affording him an opportunity of altering his 
will in a manner conformable with his son's delicate 
sense of justice, he had him chained to a large block 
of wood and severely beaten, with a view to mitigate 
the sternness of the parental decision. Three of the 
elder Fitzgerald's teeth were knocked out in the 
process. From the younger's point of view, this was 
better than nothing, but it was not all that he wanted. 

In order that justice should not be perverted in 

21 



322 PERDITA 

the eyes of the country in which he cut such a tremen- 
dous figure, he employed Brecknock to represent his 
case in the newspapers, and Brecknock conducted his 
patron's defence with a tact and ability all the more 
surprising when it came to be known that he was 
the victim of an extraordinary delusion under the 
influence of which he thought he had discovered the 
secret of perpetual life. The device was simple as 
it was insane. On every Good Friday he had himself 
bled into a bowl and then swallowed his blood as a 
sort of sacrifice. 

But the comparative impunity with which the two 
associates pursued a course of violence and crime that 
strains credibility almost to breaking-point as we read 
of it to-day, met with a check in the murder of Patrick 
McDonnell in a scuffle in which both were involved, 
and for the consequences of which both were pro- 
nounced guilty and condemned to be hanged. Could 
this be the gay, talkative Fitzgerald of Vauxhall re- 
splendent in the latest eccentricities of Parisian fashion- 
able attire, this the man of whom Mary now read lying 
on his face on a prison bed for three hours and a half 
without uttering a word, his dress a threadbare greatcoat, 
his shaven head tied in a clean pocket-handkerchief.? 

Repugnance at the details of his execution mingled 
with an irresistible curiosity to know them as she sat 
in the silent shelter of those German woods with all 
the glory of early June about her. After being carried 
to her seat she had dismissed her attendant in order 
to indulge her fondness for the solitary contemplation 
of nature. But she could not keep her eyes from the 
sheet that lay spread on her knees before her. A few 
hours before his execution he had smiled at the friends 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 323 

who visited him, as if in no way apprehensive of 
danger. The memory of his smile, so winning, so 
unpremeditated, returned to her now with sickening 
precision. Whimsical to the last, he had twice refused 
to die on a Monday, but it was on a Monday, the 1 2th ' 
of June, 1786, that the end had come for him. She had 
heard aspersions cast on his bravery. But where v/as 
the taint of cowardice in this man who, when the 
first rope broke with the sudden check as he plunged 
himself off the ladder, rose unaided to his feet and 
called the sheriff to procure another and a stouter .? 

Above Mary's head, birds twittered and piped in 
the trees, the sun shone with increasing warmth as 
the day advanced. In the distance passed to and 
fro the figure of her little girl, who was chasing 
butterflies with all the blithe cruelty of her eleven 
years. The printed sheet dropped from her mother's 
lap upon the moss at her feet. How strange were 
the vicissitudes of human life ! How contradictory the 
blood and violence of the scenes of which she had 
read and the calm serenity of this noble German 
forest with the spreading benevolence of its friendly 
foliage and its atmosphere of peace and goodwill to 
all men ! The horrid spectacle of a dangling body, 
a thing that swayed and quivered, pursued its way 
into the very air of her neighbourhood, infecting the 
sunlight with its pictured ghastliness. For super- 
natural horrors she had a weakness, and would have 
found nothing repulsive, however alarming, in the 
apparition of Fitzgerald's ghost in an avenue of 
tapering trees near which she was seated. But this 
pitiless account of his execution filled her with a 
choking sense of disgust. 



324 PERDITA 

The spot she had chosen for her meditations was 
removed from the sight of human habitations, and 
the forest air was alive with the steady humming of 
innumerable bees. A hare darted across a path within 
a few yards of where she sat, and disappeared with 
a faint rustle into an undergrowth of ferns. 

" God of Nature ! " murmured Mary, " Sovereign 
of the universe ! How sublime are Thy works ! " 



XXXV 

The year 1786 had not come to a close before she 
received a fresh shock in the news of her father's 
death. Disgusted with the ingratitude of his own 
country for the services he had rendered in the siege 
of Gibraltar, he had set out at the age of sixty-two 
to Petersburg. The great Catharine extended a warm 
welcome to distinguished foreigners and knew well 
how to turn their European experience to the ad- 
vantage of Russia, so that Captain Darby, who was 
armed with powerful recommendations from the Duke 
of Dorset and the Count de Simolin, soon obtained 
an appointment in the Imperial Russian service. In 
two years he was promoted to the command of a 
seventy-four gun ship with a promise of nomination 
as admiral on the first vacancy. But on the fifth of 
December he died. To mark her appreciation of his 
services Russia buried him with military honours, 
and he was followed to the grave by Admiral Greig, 
Count Czernichef, Count de Simolin, and the officers 
of the fleet. 

The poem which Mary composed to his memory 
showed that his death extinguished every trace of 
bitterness which at times she felt for the conduct 
of a good sailor but an indifi^erent husband and father. 
Through this highly coloured panegyric of his valour 
sounds the clear note of a piety which grew steadily 

325 



326 PERDITA 

in her declining years and was deepened by the gradual 
invasion of private sorrows upon the cheerfulness of 
her spirits. 

On her return to England she fixed her residence 
at Brighthelmstone, chiefly for the benefit of her 
daughter, who began at this early age to show 
symptoms of a consumptive tendency. About this 
time tragedy fell thick as the winter snows of Labrador 
about her ; and as she sat at her window and looked 
across the sea in those hours of meditation lengthened 
to weariness by the relentless nature of her infirmity 
she was often unable to check the tears that rose 
in her eyes at the remembrance of even those pleasur- 
able moments which time and misfortune had tinged 
with grief. She was not one upon whom the 
resignation of old age had stolen calmly with the 
progress of life. She was even now scarce thirty, 
and already four years had passed since the hope and 
the glory of youth, with its indomitable belief in the 
beauty of what is yet to come, what the years still 
hold enveloped in the beckoning mists of futurity, 
had been cut off by an affliction that had swooped 
down on her with the swiftness and the suddenness of 
a thunderbolt. When they told her that William 
Brereton, that other Florizel of her stage days, had 
died insane, she only bowed her head and muttered, 
" Another, and yet another." 

Yet her mind was too active to be entirely en- 
gulfed in a retrospect of sorrows. From her child- 
hood she had belonged by nature to that separate 
confraternity of men and women for whom life must 
always represent, not only a thing to be lived, but 
an object of study and contemplation to be embodied 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 327 

in some form of art. That she was not the British 
Sappho that her indiscriminating admirers fondly 
allowed themselves to think her, made no difference, 
for it was in the measure of her success and not in 
her ambitions that the absurdity of such comparison 
became obvious. 

It was in the presence of Mr. Richard Burke that 
she improvised her " Lines to him who will understand 
them," and the young man lost no time before using 
his influence with his father to obtain their insertion 
in the Annual Register. Edmund Burke himself > 
introduced them with a warm panegyric. They were 
not remarkable as poetry, but their sad sincerity still 
awakens pity in the hearts of those who are familiar 
with the source of their inspiration. 

The pursuit of literature now became as much a 
business as a recreation for Mary, and popularity soon 
added its incentive to further efforts when in the 
winter of 1790, under the signature of " Laura," she >■ 
entered into a poetical correspondence with Robert 
Merry, whose peculiar extravagancies of fancy origin- 
ated a school of poetry known as the Delia Cruscan, 
from the fact that its founder was a member of the 
Scuola Delia Crusca in Florence. Walpole wrote with 
humorous contempt of Merry's " gossamery tears and 
silky oceans," but for a time editors and publishers 
looked favourably on anything in the Delia Cruscan 
style, and Mary sailed into the esteem of the blue- 
stockings, and the public who followed their lead, on 
a wave of glittering epithets, 

Banastre Tarleton was still her devoted companion, 
and her literary gifts had proved of valuable service 
to him in his "History of the Campaigns of 1780 



328 PERDITA 

and 178 1 in the Southern Provinces of America." 
He was better fitted to wield the sword than the 
pen, and would have cut a sorry figure, had he been 
left to prepare his narrative without some such aid 
as Mary had been able to lend him. While her 
spirits were enlivened by these literary exercises her 
health suffered under the nervous strain for which 
her condition unfitted her. Her limbs were frequently 
racked with acute pains, and in 1791 while at Bath 
she was ordered a dose of eighty drops of laudanum 
to relieve her suffering during a particularly sharp 
attack. But even under the influence of the narcotic 
her mind still pursued its literary exercises, and on 
awaking after a sleep of some hours she dictated a 
poem about an unfortunate creature known as " mad 
Jemmy " to her daughter. A few days before, she 
had seen him pelted with stones and mud, and the 
pity awakened in her by his condition now found 
an outlet in the composition (under circumstances that 
alarmed both her mother and her daughter) of the 
poem, " The Maniac." 

Fresh sorrow assailed her in the summier of the 
following year, when she realised that the friend in 
whom her affections had centred for the last ten years 
was no longer faithful to her. Banastre Tarleton, in 
whose interest her health had been ruined beyond all 
possibility of recovery, could hide the truth from her 
no longer ; she had no reproaches for him, but could 
only point at her own enfeebled body and nod her 
head sadly in silent comprehension of the bitter fact. 
Could she expect that upright, vigorous man of action, 
in whom the blood still flowed merrily, to pass the 
rest of his life with the loadstone of her affection, 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 329 

the affection of a woman dying by inches, round his 
neck. ? She had given him everything, but by now 
ingratitude could have no surprises for her. Tenderly 
she bade him farewell, and he left her without even 
guessing the agony of grief this separation cost her. 
She was urgently in need of a hundred pounds, but hid 
this from him in order to spare him the pain which she 
knew he would feel at his inabiHty to help her. 

In July she left London with Maria and Mrs. Darby, ' 
intending to spend a summer in Spa ; but on landing at 
Calais she decided not to venture into Flanders, which was 
still the seat of war. Between the English and the 
French coasts she had written stanzas embodying her 
farewell to Tarleton, for whom, as for the Prince, 
her affection survived all cruelty. She wrote of him 
as of one guided by no servile passions, but the born 
rover passing like the bee from flower to flower, to sip 
new sweetness with unthinking zest. 

Calais presented few attractions to Mary, but in 
her dejected state of mind she preferred its insipid 
amusements to the discomforts of journeying farther. 
The rumble of revolution reached even to the edge 
of the water, and the air was full of theories of the 
rights of man and the wrongs of impoverished aristo- 
crats. For Mary, the principle of aristocracy was so 
ingrained in nature itself that she could not conceive 
of liberty in its highest sense without aristocratic in- 
stitutions. It was different in America, for there 
the struggle had been not against monarchy itself but 
against the unjustifiable tyranny of a monarch from 
whom it had been necessary at any cost to cut loose 
for the salvation of the country. She admitted, and 
had shown in many instances in her private life, a 



330 PERDITA 

sympathy with the oppressed, but she lacked all 
instinct for revenge. Who could have suffered more 
wrong than she from the privileges of aristocracy ? 
Yet she preserved unimpaired her instinctive aversion 
from the standards of the majority, which she was no 
more capable of accepting as final than she would have 
been capable of surrendering herself in fact to their 
champion, Mr. Fox. 

Apart from the discussion of these problems, in which 
she took an interest more theoretical than practical, 
her chief recreation in Calais was to watch the outgoing 
and incoming of vessels. She would be carried in her 
chair to a spot on the quay from which she could 
pursue her observations, and would often sit for hours 
watching the faces of the people as they passed to 
and fro. Except during those attacks in which her 
whole frame was convulsed with pain and she needed 
the attentions of both her mother and daughter to 
steady her, she caused little trouble as a patient. She 
was eager to spare her daughter the constant spectacle 
of her infirmity and would beg to be left alone while 
Mrs. Darby and the girl took walks into the country 
and beguiled their leisure hours in the study of its 
botanical products. 

Her attention was arrested one evening, when she 
was seated in her accustomed place, by the appearance 
of a passenger who lingered behind at some distance 
from the stream of men and women making their way 
into the town after disembarking from the vessel, 
to engage seats in the coaches for Paris. From the 
loitering gait of this solitary figure it was easy to guess 
that he intended to stay in Calais, but he moved with 
undecided steps as if uncertain in which direction 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 331 

to proceed, and at times he peered furtively into the 
faces of the people whom he passed as if half in the 
expectation of meeting a friend. The tidiness of his 
dress was no less noticeable than its poverty, and through 
the hesitation of his manner appeared the dehberate 
(Mary thought almost the impudent) indifference of 
one whose set purpose, whatever it might be, would 
not easily be turned aside. Her impression was 
strengthened when the disappearance of a group of 
people, who had come like herself to watch the pas- 
sengers land, permitted him to gaze without interruption 
in her direction. 

His small, sharp features were only partially visible, 
for his coat was buttoned to the chin, and his 
hat was tilted forward. He stood still now with 
his hands behind his back, and the fixity of his 
stare began to disconcert her. Was it the structure 
of her chair, which so clearly revealed the invalid 
within it, that awakened such unblushing curiosity .'' 
She bepfan to wish that the time had come for her 
mother to fetch her away, and looked uneasily again 
and again towards the town, partly hoping to recognise 
the advancing figure of Mrs. Darby and partly to 
find the stranger had moved from his position when 
she suffered herself again to observe him. The 
strangeness of his attitude was emphasised, however, 
when next she looked at him, by the shifting light 
of the sun, which was dipping low on the horizon into 
a sapphire sea, making of the erect figure nothing 
more recognisable than a black silhouette against a 
background of radiant colour. 

The sound of his voice startled her as she now saw 
him advance towards her chair. 



332 PERDITA 

" This cannot and yet this must be she." 

One hand grasped the arm of her chair, the other 
rose as if in defence to protect her from his coming. 
He stooped over her. 

" Mary ! " said he in a broken voice that mingled 
with hers as she cried " Tom ! " 

" Why are you here .? " she said rapidly. " What 
has brought you ? Can you want anything of me ^ " 

"The child," said he feebly. 

She looked wildly at him. 

" You cannot take her from me. She will not go." 

" I do not want to rob you of her," he said gently. 
" My brother has returned from the East Indies. He 
is well disposed toward me and I want to introduce 
our daughter to him. That is all. You will come, 
will you not ? " 

Although he stood close to her, at her side, she 
looked at him now as at some familiar figure dimly 
discernible across an impassable gulf. 

" I will think of this," she said slowly, as at the 
sound of advancing footsteps she turned to greet her 
mother and her daughter. 

" This is your father, Mary," she said simply. 

The girl smiled. Tom looked on the ground. 
Mrs. Darby began to move her daughter's chair. In 
silence they walked to the hotel. 



XXXVI 

Commodore William Robinson had accumulated 
much wealth in the East Indies. The spectacle of 
his brother's miserable condition distressed and dis- 
concerted him. He mistrusted Tom's account of his 
misfortunes, but he saw an opportunity for exercising 
a kind of magisterial charity which satisfied his sense 
of duty and flattered his vanity. He expressed his 
willingness to see his niece, while indicating in as 
delicate a manner as the circumstances would permit, 
that an introduction to her mother would be less 
welcome to him. 

Mary disliked the idea of beginning an association 
with any member of Tom's family, but solicitude for 
the welfare of Maria overbore her own aversion, and 
after some discussion she consented to accompany 
Tom with their daughter to London. 

They had only just time to leave Calais on the 
second of September, before the issue of an arret by 
which all British subjects were restrained throughout 
France. This was the day of the prison massacres, and ''**■ 
only three weeks later Royalty was officially abolished 
by the Convention, and the Republic celebrated the 
first day of the year One. Tom laughed and alluded 
to their fortunate departure in the nick of time as 
" The Lucky Escape," reminding Mary of her comic 
opera with that title which had been attended with 

333 



334 PERDITA 

some success in her theatrical days. But Mary had 
little pleasure in the circumstances to which they owed 
their deliverance. Had she not written of Maria as 
the " sweet solace of her mournful state," and was 
she now to be deprived of her company for the sake 
of material advantages, the value of which she knew 
only too well ? She could not help indulging the hope 
that something might yet happen to check the success 
of these manoeuvres. 

The Commodore was delighted with his niece. 
She was gentle, accomplished, undeniably attractive to 
look on. What was to become of such beauty and 
such innocence, he reflected, after a single inter- 
view with her, without the protection of respectable 
persons ? He pitied the girl for her parentage. Tom 
would never do anything : his wife had already done 
too much. The only chance for Maria was to be 
separated at once from both, nor had he much doubt 
that the wisdom of such a separation would be apparent 
to them when it was made a condition of his protection. 
Mary listened without surprise to this proposal when 
Tom conveyed it to her, nor did she trouble to ask 
Tom's opinion. The decision, she said calmly, must 
rest with Maria herself : she was now seventeen, and 
of an age to take a responsibility which fell naturally 
upon no other. When they told her to make a choice, 
she only laughed and asked if the Commodore was in 
earnest. Once more the discomfited Tom disappeared, 
to encounter the indignant reproaches made by his 
brother at this unceremonious refusal of his bounty. 

Side by side the three women lived, united as much 
by misfortune as by the ties of blood, Mrs. Darby 
conducting the household, Mary pursuing her literary 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 335 

occupations, Maria giving her whole heart to the task 
of waiting upon her mother, both as nurse and secretary. 
In a procession at once grotesque and melancholy the 
emotions which Mary had lived, her fortunes and 
misfortunes, her hopes and her despairs, now took 
the literary form of sonnets, monodies, lyrical tales, 
romances which flowed from her pen with a mechanical 
ease all the greater for the popular success accorded 
to her efforts. 

Of persecuted virtue she wrote, of solitude and 
woe, of the dangers of credulity, of the delusions of 
ambition, of Garrick's " clear deep whisper and per- 
suasive sigh," of noble Reynolds, of Marie Antoinette 
languishing in her prison and envying the liberty of 
the robin at her window, and of her children — 

Scarce born to greatness ere consigned to woe. 

From the satirical delineation of the foibles of female 
gamblers in a farce she passed to the sombre gloom 
of a Sicilian tragedy. 

But while borne along by the necessity of rapid 
composition (for she needed money) she longed 
eagerly for a respite from a form of labour which 
became more and more exhausting as, in their progress, 
the years increased for her their load of personal 
sorrows. The death of Mrs. Darby in 1793 revived 
anew the bitterness of the reflections which she had 
thought (alas too vainly) could never again disturb her 
tranquillity. Yet she was glad that her mother died 
in the undisturbed companionship of the wayward 
daughter whose life she had followed with so much 
compassion if with so little comprehension. Five 
years later, in 1798, Tarleton's marriage to a daughter 



336 PERDITA 

of the Duke of Ancaster made her once more aware 
that time could not subdue her affection for him. 
In the farewell poem which she had written to him 
she had spoken of woman's heart growing fonder when 
her dream of bliss was over. Now the lines of the 
faded manuscript danced at her through a mist of 
tears. 

At the beginning of this year she had begun to 
write her memoirs. She who in the days of a splendid 
prosperity had cared nothing what posterity should 
think, if it should think at all, of her actions, now 
felt an irrepressible yearning for justification. Daily 
the task of writing had absorbed more and more of 
her vitality until it had become almost a function in 
her existence, and with a natural impulse she now bent 
the services of her talents to the written defence of 
her own memory and the memory of those whose 
associations with her had involved them in a measure 
of abuse and calumny. In 1799 she undertook to 
edit the literary department of The Morning Post, and 
several of her own contributions appeared in this 
journal under the signature " Tabitha Bramble." 

But in the same year she fell dangerously ill. 
Constant anxiety as to her liabilities had caused her to 
seclude herself from the large number of friends who 
had enjoyed meeting in her society. She had dispensed 
one by one with the comforts and elegancies which 
alone could invest her difficult conditions with some 
of that outward grace of which she more and more felt 
the need as an excuse for wishing to continue her 
life. Poverty, as she too well knew, ill became her. 
Pain left its cruel marks upon her body no less than 
upon her mind. 




I-'rom a photograph by Mansell & Co. of tlie piLtuit; in ihc Walla 
Sir Joshua Reynolds, P.K.A. 

MARY ROBINSON. 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 337 

One morning as she lay sleeping lightly after a 
night of torture which her physicians scarcely dared 
to hope that she would survive, an attorney and his 
client, a parson, burst into her chamber, to demand 
her appearance as a witness in a suit pending against 
her brother. She was hardly able to make intelligible 
answers to the questions addressed to her. At last 
the parson, impatient at the failure of the attorney 
to extract valuable information from her, threw the 
subpcEna upon her bed, and as he hurriedly left the 
room she could hear him angrily exclaim, " Who to 
see this lady could believe that she was once called 
* the beautiful Mrs. Robinson'?" 



22 



XXXVII 

In the spring of 1800 Mary's doctors forbade her to 
continue her literary work and recommended as a last 
expedient that she should make trial of the Bristol 
waters. She had not money enough for the expenses 
of the journey. Never indifferent to the needs of 
others in distress, she had lent a considerable sum to 
a nobleman to whom she now applied for a return 
of a part of the money ; but although she stated the 
melancholy reasons for her application, her letter 
remained unanswered. 

In despair her daughter contrived that she should 
be removed to Englefield Cottage, near Windsor, and 
for a time in the peace of her surroundings and the 
pure air of the country her mother recovered some 
of her spirits. In spite of the doctors' orders she 
occupied ten successive days in August in dictating 
to her daughter a translation of Dr. Hager's " Picture 
of Palermo." Reluctantly she agreed to forego a 
cherished project of giving Klopstock's " Messiah " 
to English readers in blank verse. With a calm ob- 
stinacy which surprised those around her she fought 
against the conviction that she was dying, but as 
the autumn wore into winter she found herself unable 
to bear the fatigue of being borne from one chamber 
into another. Even then she encouraged in others 
the hope that no longer lived in herself by requesting 

338 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 339 

her daughter frequently to read to her, and from 
the liveliness of her comments it was difficult for the 
girl to believe that her mother's life was so near its 
end. 

But in Maria's absence she at last gave to a friend 
particular instructions that left no doubt of her 
knowledge that she would never rise again from 
a bed strewn with pillows to support her in those 
paroxysms of pain to which she was subjected more 
and more frequently. She begged to be buried in 
Old Windsor Churchyard as simply as possible, and 
named a few friends to whom she wished to bequeath 
the few personal trifles which represented all the 
property she possessed. Gallantly she summoned to 
her aid all the spirits left in her when, on the 28th 
of November, her friends celebrated her forty-second 
birthday by numerous kindly messages and gifts of 
flowers. But the composure which she strove to 
maintain in Maria's presence broke down towards the 
beginning of December, when she shook her head at 
the nurse, who sought to persuade her she would get 
well, and said, " I am but a very little time longer for 
this world." 

For a fortnight she struggled against the suffocation 
threatened by an accumulation of water upon her chest. 
Again and again she believed that her last moment 
had come. They told her Christmas Day was within 
a few hours. She said she would never see that day. 
Between night and morning her distress was so great 
that she cried, " O just and merciful God, help me 
to support this agony." Yet she lived through the 
whole of Christmas day, sinking towards evening into 
a lethargic stupor. 



340 PERDITA 

" My darling Mary," she said, as her daughter 
leaned over the pillows. In another hour she lost 
consciousness and soon after noon on the twenty-sixth 
of December she died. 

Her picture hangs in a place of honour in the long 
room at Hertford House, a daily source of wonder, 
admiration, curiosity, to the spectator : wonder at a 
beauty that sorrow and misfortune could not vanquish 
(for the sadness of more than half her life was in 
those eyes when Gainsborough painted them) ; ad- 
miration of the painter's power to fix for ever the 
character and the incarnate existence of a personality 
buried, but for this romantic interpretation, deep in the 
debris of what is called history ; curiosity in the irony 
of fact which confronts him in the mysterious life of 
the picture, upon which the colour rests as from the 
brush of yesterday, and the death more than a hundred 
years ago of the lady pourtrayed. 

For Florizel, Mary Robinson was no more than 
the Perdita of a passing folly. When he died, his 
thoughts were of another, and another's portrait was 
hanging on his neck. For Mary, Prince Florizel 
remained to the last one of whom she could not think 
evil. In this lies no reason, but much humanity. As 
she lay dying she requested that a lock of her hair 
might be sent to the Prince. 



NOTES 



To the Reader, 



More than half a century ago Thackeray wrote, " / 
take up a volume of Dr. Smollett or a volume of The 
Spectator, and say the fiction carries a greater amount of 
truth in solution than the volume which purports to be 
all true.'' 

While all the persons named in Perdita, A Romance 
in Biography, existed in fact, and while the greater 
number of scenes, conversations, and incidents in this book 
rest on historical facts, it has been found expedient to 
present the whole mainly in the form of fiction, in order to 
preserve a larger truth than could be conveyed in a purely 
historical narrative. 'To what extent the author has 
employed the resources of fiction to complete the significance 
of his material, may be gathered by reference to the 
following books. 



'Bibliography 



AlLIBONE, Samuel Austin . 

Angela, Henry Charles William 
Archdeacon, Matthenu . 
Armytage, A. J. Green . 
Ashton, John 

Baker, Dawd Erskim 
Baker, H. B. 
Ban'uard, J. . 
Boutet de Mon-vel . 
Burney, Frances 
Bury, Charlotte 



A Critical Dictionary of English Litera- 
ture 
The Reminiscences of Henry Angela 
. Legends of Conn aught 
Maids of Honour 
FlorizeFs Folly 

Biographica Dramatica 
Our Old Actors 
The Private Life of a King 
George 'Brummell et George IV. 
Memoirs of Dr. Burney 
Diary Illustrati've of the Times of 
George the Fourth 

343 



344 



PERDITA 



CaRTWRIGHT, George . . Sixteen Tears on the Coast of Labrador 
Chalmers, Alexander . . . The General Biographical Dictionary 
Croly, G The Life and Times of His Late 

Majesty Qeorge the Fourth 
„„..... The Personal History of His Late 

Majesty George the Fourth 



DeLANT, Mary . 



Dictionary of National 'Biography 
Doran, John .... 



Dublin University Magazine . 

Fitzgerald, qeorge Robert 

Fitzgerald, Percy Hetherington 



Autobiography and Correspondence of 
Mrs. Mary Delany, edited by Lady 
Llano'ver 

Their Majesties' Servants, Annals of 
the English Stage from Thomas Bet- 
terton to Edmund Kean 

Volume XVL 

Memoirs of George Robert Fitzgerald 
The Life of George the Fourth 



Frost, T. The Life of Thomas, Lord Lyttelton 



GENEST,John . 

Gentleman s Magazine 
George the Third . 



Geor^an Era 

Hanger, George 

Hanvkins, Laetitia Matilda 



Holt, Ed'ward 
Hughes, Hugh J. . 
Huish, Robert 

Lloyd, h. g. . 

Lyttelton, Thomas . 

Melville, Le^is 



Some Account of the English Stage 
from 1660 to 1830 

Correspondence of King George the 
Third ivith Lord North from 1768 
to 1783 



The Life, Adventures, and Opinions of 

Colonel George Hanger 
Memoirs, Anecdotes, Facts, and Opinions 
Anecdotes, Biographical Sketches, and 

Memoirs 
Public and Domestic Life of George the 

Third 
The Life of Honvell Harris the Welsh 

Reformer 
Memoirs of George the Fourth 

George the Fourth, Memoirs of his Life 

and Reign 
Letters of the late Lord Lyttelton 

The First Gentleman of Europe 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 345 

Mollqy, y. Fitzgerald 
Monthly Mirror 

OULTON, W.C. 



Court Life belo-w Stairs ; or, London 
under the Last Georges 



The History of the Theatres of London 



PaPENDIEK, Charlotte L. H. . Court aitd Private Life of S^ueen 

Charlotte 
Perdita ...... Poetical Epistle from Florizel to Perdita 

ivith Perdita" s Ansiver 
....... The Mistress of Royalty ; or, The Loves 

ofFlorizel and Perdita 
Public Characters 



Robinson, Mary . 

Russell, William Clark . 

Sargent, winthrop . 

Smucker, S. M. 

Thespian Dictionary 
VaUXHALL Affray 

Wallace, wniiam . 

Walpole, B. C. 
fValpole, Horace 

» » • • 

Williams, Robert 

Wraxall, Nathaniel William 

Wright, Thomas 



Memoirs of the late Mrs. Robinson, 
ivritten by herself and edited by her 
daughter 

Representative Actors 

The Life and Career of John Andre 
A History oj the Four Georges 



Memoirs of the Life and Reign of 

George the Fourth 
Recollections of the Life of Charles 

James Fox 
Journal of the Reign of George the 

Third from 1771 to 1783 
The Letters of Horace Walpole, nvith 

Notes and Indices by Mrs. Paget 

Toynbee 
A Biographical Dictionary oj Eminent 

Welshmen 
Historical Memoirs of My Ozvn Time 

from 1772 to 1784 
Caricature History of the Georges 



346 



PERDITA 



1776 
1777 



'J'wenty-five Characters 

impersonated by Mary T^obinson 

at Drury Lane Theatre 

December 10 Juliet in Romeo and Juliet d^but ; 

February 17 Statira in Alexander the Great (Nathaniel 

Lee) 
„ 24 Amanda in A Trip to Scarborough (Sheridan's 

adaptation from Sir John Van- 
brugh's The Relapse) 
April 10 Fanny Stirling in A Clandestine Marriage (George 

Colman and David Garrick) j 
benefit 
in Hamlet 

in King Richard III. 
in Comus (Milton) 

1778 January lo Emily in The Runaivay (Hannah Cowley) 

in The Confederacy (Sir John Van- 

brugh) 
in All for Love (Dryden) 
in Macbeth ; benefit 
in Mahomet (Miller and John Hoadly) 

1779 February 3 Mtss Ktchly in The Discovery (Mrs. Sheridan) 

in The Lavo of Lombardy (Robert 

Jephson) 
in King Lear 5 benefit 
in The Suspicious Husband (John 

Hoadly) 
in The Merchant of Venice 
in The Plain Dealer (Wycherley) 
in Tnjoelfth Night 
in A Winter's Tale 

in „ „ „ (by Royal Com- 

mand) 

1780 January 28 Rosalind in As You Like It 

in The Inconstant (George Farquahar) 
in Cymbeline 

in The Irish fVidoiv (David Garrick) 
in The Miniature Picturi; (Lady 

Craven) 

Note. — The Shakespearean plays quoted loere perjormed in the versions of 
David Garrick. 

The dates specified, so far as can be ascertained, refer to the first appear- 
ance of Mrs. Robinson in the characters named. 



September 30 


Ophelia 


October 7 


Lady Anne 


December 22 


Lady 


January lo 


Emily 


April 9 


Araminta 


» 23 


Octavia 


» 30 


Lady Macbe 


November ii 


Palmira 


February 3 


Miss Richly 


„ 8 


Alinda 


April 14 


Cordelia 


May ID 


Jacintha 


» 14 


Portia 


» 15 


Fidelia 


September 23 


Viola 


November 20 


Perdita 


December 3 


It 


January 28 


Rosalind 


April 3 


Oriana 


„ 18 


Imogen 


May 4 


Mrs. Brady 


» 24 


Eliza Camp 



A ROMANCE IN BIOGRAPHY 347 

The Works of Mary Robinson 

ATE OF 
aBLICATION * 

1775 Poems 

\']T] Capti'uity, a Poem; and Celadon and Lydia, a Tale 

1778 The Songs, Choruses, etc., in The Lucky Escape, a Comic Opera 

791-3 Poems. 2 njols. 

1792 Monody to the Memory of Sir Joshua Reynolds 
„ Vaucenza, or The Dangers of Credulity 

1793 Sight, The Caaiern of Woe and Solitude. Poems 

„ Monody to the Memory of the late Slueen of France, 'with a portrait 

of the Sueen by Marchioness Lezay-Marnesia 
1796 The Sicilian Lo-ver, a Tragedy in five acts and in verse 
„ Sappho and Phaon in a series of legitimate Sonnets, voith Thoughts 

on Poetical Subjects 
„ Angelina, a Novel in three volumes 

„ Hubert de Sevrac, a Romance of the Eighteenth Century 

1798 ? Walsingham, or the Pupil of Nature, a Domestic Story 

1799 The False Friend, a Domestic Story 

1800 Translation of Dr. Hagers "Picture of 'Palermo" 
„ Lyrical Tales 

1801 Memoirs of the late Mrs. Robinson, vuritten by herself vuith some 

posthumous pieces edited hy her daughter, tM. E. Robinson 

* These dates refer to the first editions. 



INDEX 



Abington, Mrs., actress, ii8, 

131 
Albanesi, Angelina, wife of 
Angelo Albanesi, 160; and 
Count Belgiojoso, 160 

— Angelo, engraver, pupil of 
Sherwin, 159, 160; as illus- 
trator of Mary Robinson's 
poem " Captivity," 161 

Amphlet, Mrs., and her 
daughters, 203 

Armstead, Mrs., in St. James's 
Street, 268 ; the wife of 
Fox, 313 

Arnould, Sophie, French ac- 
tress, 130 

Artois, Comte d', 123 

Ayscough, Captain, at the 
Pantheon, 96 ; his death, 201 

Belgiojoso, Count, Austrian 
Ambassador, 102 ; and An- 
gelina Albanesi, 160 

Bertin, Mademoiselle, milliner, 

304 

Billington, Mrs., 313 

Brecknock, literary agent of 
G. R. Fitzgerald, 322 

Brereton, William, actor, 102 ; 
meets Mary Robinson in 
St. James's Park, 168 ; re- 
cites Romeo, 170 ; as Romeo 
at Drury Lane Theatre, 173 ; 
his death, 326 

Bristol, Earl of, as patron of 
Captain Darby, 15 

Burke, Edmund, 327 

— Richard, 327 



Camden, Lord, 121 

Carpenter, Lady Almeria, 97 

Cavendish, Georgiana, Duchess 
of Devonshire, as patroness 
of Mary Robinson, 162, 163 ; 
her support of Fox at the 
Westminster election, 259 ; 
at the King's birthday ball, 
271 

Charlotte, Queen, at the per- 
formance of "A Winter's 
Tale," 219, 220, 222 ; her 
interview with the Prince 
of Wales, 229 ; her love for 
Kew, 249 ; at the King's 
birthday ball, 269, 270, 271 

Chatham, Lord, patronises 
Captain Darby's scheme, 14 ; 
admired by the second Lord 
Lyttelton, 121 

Clive, Catharine, her admira- 
tion for Garrick's acting, 

33 

Coombe, William, author, 120 ; 
quotation from his " Diabo- 
liad," 203 

Cornelys, Mrs., 95 

Cosway, Richard, his portrait 
in miniature of Mary Robin- 
son, 70 ; his portrait of the 
Prince of Wales, 260 

Cox, Samuel, lawyer, 34 

Crosdill, violoncellist, 223 

Crouch, Mrs., 313 

Cumberland, Duke of : see 
Henry Frederick, Duke of 
Cumberland 

Czernichef, Count, 325 



349 



3 so 



INDEX 



Darby, Captain Nicholas, his 
social needs, 8 ; substitution 
of his name for McDermott, 
12 ; his marriage, 12 ; his 
projects for civilising the 
Eskimos, 14 ; at Seal Island, 
16 ; failure, 18, 19 ; at 
Spring Gardens, 19 ; his 
mistress, 28 ; his threat to 
his wife, 29 ; at the siege 
of Gibraltar, 307 ; his service 
under Catharine the Great, 
and his death, 325 ; his 
daughter's poem to his 
memory, 325 

— George, merchant, 4 ; at- 
tacked by small-pox when 
a child, 45 

— John, merchant, 4, 15; 
present at Mary Robinson's 
performance of Palmira, 195 

— Mrs. ; gives birth to Mary, 
3 ; her marriage, 11 ; her 
birthplace, 12 ; starts a 

• school, 25 ; closes it, 27 ; 
revisits Bristol, y/, 94 ; goes 
to stay with Mary Robinson 
at Finchley, 1 34 ; her death, 

'^ 335 

— William, his death from 
measles, 18 

Denbigh, Earl of, 220 
Derby, Earl of, 196 
Devonshire, Duchess of : see 
Cavendish, Georgiana 

Erskine, Sir Charles, his widow, 

18 
Essex, Earl of: see Maiden, 

Lord 

Farren, Miss, actress, 185, 196 
Fisher, Mrs., as Cordelia, 10 
Fitzgerald, George Robert, in 
the Vauxhall dispute, 100 ; 
his introduction to Mary 
Robinson, 104 ; his court- 
ship of Miss Conolly, 122, 
123 ; in Paris, 123 ; gaming 
with Comte d' Artois, 1 30 ; 



the story of his life and 
tragical end, 320-3 

Fitzherbert, Mrs., 315, 316 

Florizel: see George Augustus 
Frederick, Prince of Wales 

Ford, Mr., part owner of Drury 
Lane Theatre, 221 

Fortescue, Hugh, 208 

Fox, Charles James, in the 
Green Room of Drury Lane 
Theatre, 196 ; his opposition 
to the Royal Marriages BUI, 
224 ; his election, 259 ; his 
fashion in shoe-heels, 260 ; 
lodges in St. James's Street, 
297 ; the friend of the 
Prince of Wales, 297 ; as 
Foreign Secretary, 297 ; his 
views on the recognition 
of American Independence, 
297 ; his reason for living in 
Berkeley Square, 298 ; his 
successful support of Mary 
Robinson's claims, 301 ; his 
marriage, 313 ; his debts, 314 

Frederick Augustus, Bishop of 
Osnaburgh, at the perform- 
ance of "A Winter's Tale," 
219 ; at Kew, 251 

Frederick, Prince of Wales, 
grandfather of George IV., 
242 ; his " Lines to a Lady," 
243 

Gainsborough, Thomas, his 
portrait of Mary Robinson, 

2, 3. 340 
Garrick, David, his versions of 
Shakespeare's plays, 10 ; his 
house in Adelphi Terrace, 
32 ; his exclamation on the 
death of Mrs. Cibber, ^^ ; 
the admiration of Kitty 
Clive for his acting, 33 ; 
writes to Mrs. Darby, 6;^ ; 
congratulates Mary Robin- 
son on her marriage, 130; 
his description of the ballet- 
master Noverre, 149 ; offers to 
train Mary Robinson for the 



INDEX 



3S^ 



part of Juliet, 171 ; his version 
of " Romeo and Juliet," 
172, 173, 177 ; his death and 
burial, 197, 198 ; described 
by Mary Robinson, 335 

Gay, John, his ballad " 'Twas 
when the Sea was Roaring," 5 

George III., and Captain Cart- 
wright's Eskimos, 19 ; at the 
performance of " A Winter's 
Tale," 219, 220, 222 ; his 
hatred of Fox, 224 ; his love 
for Kew, 249 ; his views on 
his son's establishment, 265 ; 
his birthday ball, 267 ; his 
marriage, 274 ; his sorrow 
at his son's conduct, 277, 
298 ; his letter to Lord 
North, 295 

— IV : see George Augustus 
Frederick, Prince of Wales 

— Augustus Frederick, Prince 
of Wales, at the performance 
of "A Winter's Tale," 219 ; 
his agricultural training, 223 ; 
at the performance of Han- 
del's oratorio " Alexander's 
Feast," 236 ; criticised in 
allusive paragraphs, 238 ; 
his nurses, tutors and pre- 
ceptors, 240 ; coming of age, 
241 ; his lessons in gunnery 
and fortification, 243 ; his 
bond containing promise to 
pay twenty thousand pounds, 
245 ; his copy-book in Kew 
Palace, 248 ; his first meet- 
ing with Mary Robinson, 
251; called "Taffy" by 
his uncle, 258 ; writes a 
letter in blood, 259 ; his 
escapade at Lord Chester- 
field's, 260 ; his portrait by 
Cosway, 260 ; his birthday, 
262, 273 ; his titles, 265 ; 
his first instalment of an 
establishment, 266 ; at the 
King's birthday ball, 267, 
269, 271 ; his carriage, 267 ; 
his portrait model in wax, 



275 ; his letter to Mary 
Robinson declaring that they 
must meet no more, 281 ; 
his conduct in Hyde Park, 
289 ; his friendship for Fox, 
297 ; his infatuation for Mrs. 
Billington, 313 ; for Mrs. 
Crouch, 313 ; his love of 
drinking, 313 ; at Carlton 
House, 314 ; sells his horses, 
314; his Chinese pavilion at 
Brighton, 314; the expenses 
at his christening, 314 ; re- 
ceives a grant from Parlia- 
ment, 315 ; his courtship 
of Mrs. Fitzherbert, 315 ; 
his marriage with Mrs. Fitz- 
herbert, 316; his pursuit 
of Elizabeth Harrington, 316 

Gordon, Lord George, 266 

Grandmamma Elizabeth, 147 

Greig, Admiral, 325 

Grosvenor, Lady, 225 

Gunning, Miss, 219 

Hamilton, Duchess of, 267 

Handel, George Frederick, his 
statue at Vauxhall, 129 ; his 
" Alexander's Feast," 236 

Harrington, Eizabeth, 316 

Harris, Howell, 72 

— Joseph, 72 

— Thomas, 59, 72, 73, 74, 92 
Hartley, Mrs., actress, 34 
Henley : see Northington 
Henry Frederick, Duke of 

Cumberland, at the perform- 
ance of "A Trip to Scar- 
borough," 183, 184 ; his hosti- 
lity to the King, 224, 257; his 
pursuit of Lady Grosvenor, 
225 ; his visit to Lord Maiden, 
246 ; starts faro at Cumber- 
land House, 258 ; as sponsor 
to the Prince of Wales, 258 ; 
at the King's birthday ball, 
269, 271 

Hertford, Earl of, 220 

Hervey, Mrs., her academy in 
Marylebone, 29 



35^ 



INDEX 



Hillsborough, Lord, 207 
Holdernesse, Lady, 219 
Hopkins, PriscUla, school friend 

of Mary Robinson, 9 ; at 

Drury Lane Theatre, 196 
Hotham, Lieutenant-Colonel, 

279 
Howard, John, prison re- 
' former, 164 
Hull, Thomas, actor-manager 

of Covent Garden Theatre, 

30 
Hulse, Colonel, 229 
Hurd, Bishop, preceptor to 

the Prince of Wales, 240 

Johnson, Dr. Samuel, his com- 
ment on Garrick's death, 
197, 198 

Jones, Mrs., nurse, 141, 143, 
145 

Kemble, John, husband of 

PrisciUa Hopkins, 9 
King, Mr., money-broker, 80, 

81, 126 

Lade, Laetitia, 316 

— Sir John, 211 
Lake, General, 229 
Lambert, Sir John, 302 
Leigh, Mrs., schoolmistress, 22 
Lorrington,Meribah, her school, 

20 ; her affection for Mary 
Robinson, 21 ; her accom- 
plishments, 21 ; her intem- 
perance, 22 ; meets Mary 
Robinson, her former pupil, 
26 ; death, 160 
Lothian, Marquis of, 220 
Lyttelton, Thomas, first lord, 
his poem, " The Heavy 
Hours," 5 

— Thomas, second lord, at the 
Pantheon, 96 ; outline of his 
early career, 10 1 ; ridicules 
extreme youth in women, 
104 ; satirised in Coombe's 
" Diaboliad," 120; his ex- 
clamation on inheriting peer- 



age, 120 ; at Eton, 121 ; on 
American Rebellion, 121 ; 
his house at Hill Street, 122 ; 
his marriage, 123 ; compli- 
ments Mary Robinson, 166 ; 
visits Ireland, 201 ; prepares 
speech on Irish Volunteer 
movement, 202 ; character- 
ises the indecision of the 
Government, 202 ; his de- 
scription by Coombe, 203 ; 
his new house at Pit Place, 
204 ; his dream, 205, 206 ; 
extract from his speech on 
Ireland, 206, 207 ; jokes in 
a churchyard, 209 ; his 
death, 213 

Majendie, tutor to the Prince 
of Wales, 227 

Maiden, Lord, 221 .; his inter- 
view with Mary Robinson, 
232-4 ; his negociation as 
intermediary, 246 

Marie Antoinette, Queen, at the 
hunt in Fontainebleau, 123 ; 
her invitation to Mary Robin- 
son, 303 ; her marriage, 304 ; 
described by Mary Robinson, 

335 

McDermott : see Darby, Cap- 
tain Nicholas 

Melbourne, Lady, 267 

Merry, Robert, 327 

Meyer, Mr., painter, 244 

Molly, Mrs., 75 

Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, 
introduces inoculation into 
England, 45 

— Mrs., assemblage of, 10; 
admires Lyttelton's painting, 

lOI 

Montague, Duke of, Governor 

to the Prince of Wales, 240 
More, Hannah, and her sisters, 

9 ; theories of education, 9 ; 

intimacy with the Garricks, 

34 

North, Lord, the King's letter 



INDEX 



353 



to, 295 ; dismisses Fox, 

297 
Northington, Lord, Chancellor, 

14, 29 
son of Chancellor Lord 

Northington, 28 ; at the 

Pantheon, 97 
Northumberland, Duke of, 219, 

220 

Orleans, Duke of, 301, 302 
Osnaburgh : see Frederick Au- 
gustus, Bishop of Osnaburgh 

Parker, Lady, 269 
Parry, Mrs., authoress, 102 
Perdita : see Robinson, Mary 
Pope, Alexander, his elegy to 
the memory of an Unfortu- 
nate Lady, 5 
Powell, Mr., as King Lear, 10 

Reynolds, Sir Joshua, his por- 
trait of Mary Robinson, i, 
2 ; house in Great Queen 
Street, "^^ 

Robinson, Betsy, 74 

— Maria Elizabeth, 334 

— Mary, birth, 3 ; brothers, 
4 ; recitations by, 5 ; at 
school, 9 ; first visit to a 
theatre, 10 ; at Meribah 
Lorrington's school, 20, 21 ; 
receives proposal for mar- 
riage, 23 ; her early poems, 
23 ; rencounter with Meri- 
bah Lorrington, 26 ; at Ox- 
ford House, Marylebone, 29 ; 
recites Rowe's " Jane Shore," 
30 ; lodges in Southampton 
Buildings, Chancery Lane, 
34 ; her dresses, 40, 69, 84, 
95, 96, 174, 183, 304 ; her 
" Thoughts on Retirement," 
44 ; lodges at York Build- 
ings, Villar's Street, 45 ; 
attacked by small-pox, 48 ; 
banns of her marriage pub- 
lished, 58 ; her marriage, 69, 
70 ; her house in Great 



Queen Street, j^i ; revisits 
Bristol, 80, 81 ; her first 
visit to Tregunter, 83 ; her 
house in Hatton Garden, 95 ; 
at Ranelagh and the Pan- 
theon, 95 ; with child, 96 ; 
visits Harriet Wilmot, 117; 
at Vauxhall, 124 ; removal 
to Finchley, 134 ; second 
visit to Tregunter, 137 ; at 
Trevecca, 141, 142 ; gives 
birth to Maria Elizabeth, 
143 ; dances at a ball in 
Monmouth, 150; accom- 
panies her husband to prison, 
158; writes poem "Cap- 
tivity," 161 ; reappears at 
Vauxhall, 165 ; lodges at 
Newman Street, 169 ; with 
child, 169 ; visited by Sheri- 
dan, 169 ; her first appear- 
ance on the stage, 173-8 ; 
loses her child Sophia, 185 ; 
lodges in Southampton 
Street, 185 ; as Statira, 185 ; 
visits Bath, 185 ; visits Bris- 
tol, 185 ; lodges in Leicester 
Square, 185 ; contract to 
perform at Haymarket 
Theatre, 185 ; as Ophelia, 
186; as Lady Anne, 186; 
as Lady in " Comus," 186 ; 
as Emily, 187 ; as Araminta, 
187 ; as Octavia, 187 ; as 
Lady Macbeth, 187 ; writes 
verses for " The Lucky 
Escape," 188 ; third visit to 
Tregunter, 189 ; adventure 
with the Master of Cere- 
monies of Bath, 192-4; as 
Palmira, 195 ; her house in 
Covent Garden, 196 ; as 
Alinda, 198 ; as Cordelia, 

198 ; as Jacintha, 198 ; as 
Portia, 198 ; as Fidelia, 198, 

199 ; as Viola, 199 ; as Per- 
dita, 200, 217, 219-28 ; her 
card-parties, 211; inter- 
viewed by Lord Maiden, 232- 
4 ; at the performance of 

23 



354 



INDEX 



Handel's oratorio, " Alex- 
ander's Feast," 236 ; reads 
allusive paragraphs on the 
Prince, 238 ; as Rosalind, 
247 ; as Imogen, 247 ; as 
Mrs. Brady in " The Irish 
Widow," 247 ; her first meet- 
ing with the Prince, 251 ; 
her house in Cork Street, 257; 
her carriages, 257, 261 ; her 
portraits, 258 ; her letter to 
the Prince to warn him 
against the fatigues of danc- 
ing, 259 ; at the Star and 
Garter, Richmond, 260 ; her 
respect for the King ; 261 ; 
at the king's birthday ball, 
268, 269 ; her journey to 
Windsor, 283-5 ; her inter- 
view with the Prince at Lord 
Maiden's, 288 ; her rebuff in 
Hyde Park, 289 ; her sur- 
render of the letters from the 
Prince, 294 ; her house in 
Berkeley Square, 298 ; her 
interview with a city gentle- 
man, 300, 301 ; her claims 
satisfied, 301 ; in Paris, 301 ; 
her invitation from Marie 
Antoinette, 303, 304 ; her 
illness, 312 ; her paralysis 
318 ; at Aix-la-Chapelle and 
St. Amand, 319 ; her poems 
to the memory of her father, 
325 ; at Brighton, 326 ; her 
" Lines to him who will 
understand them," 327 ; her 
pseudonym " Laura," 327 ; 
at Calais, 329, 330 ; her 
meeting with her husband, 
332 ; edits the literary de- 
partment of the Morning 
Post, ^^6 ; her pseudonym, 
" Tabitha Bramble," 336 ; 
translates Hager's " Picture 
of Palermo," 338 ; her death, 
340 
Robinson, Thomas, his first ap- 
pearance to Mary Darby, 38 ; 
suit before Sir John Fielding, 



III; visits Harriet Wilmot, 
114; sale of his effects at 
Hatton Garden, 1 34 ; stopped 
by a writ of execution, 152 ; 
imprisoned for debt, 156; 
at Calais, 332 
Robinson, William, 333, 334 
Rockingham, Marquis of, 207, 

297 
Romney, George, his portrait 
of Mary Robinson, i 

Saunders, Dr., 69, 70 

Selwyn, George, his joke at the 
expense of Fox and Mary 
Robinson, 298 

Shelburne, Lord, 206 ; at en- 
mity with Fox, 297 ; his 
house, 298 

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 
shareholder in Drury Lane 
Theatre, 169 ; visits Mary 
Robinson, 169 ; at Mary 
Robinson's first performance, 
174 ; his adaptation of " The 
Relapse," 183; his "School 
for Scandal," 184; manager 
of Drury Lane Theatre, 185, 
186; his /'Duenna" as an 
opera, 199 

Sherwin, engraver, 258, 25c 

Simolin, Count de, 325 

Smith, WUliam, actor, 220 

— J. T., engraver, 258 

Strochling, Russian painter, 
258 

Tarleton, Colonel, under Clin- 
ton and Cornwallis, 300 ; his 
interview with the King, 
300 ; his financial embarrass- 
ments, 303 ; his reputation in 
America, 306 ; his "History 
of the Campaigns of 1780 and 
1 78 1 in the Southern Pro- 
vinces of America," 327, 328 ; 
his marriage, 335 

Townshend, Lady, 97 

Tyers, Tom, manager of Vaux- 
hall, 124 



INDEX 



355 



Tyrconnel, Countess of, 97 

Vanbrugh, Sir John, drama- 
tist, 183 
Vernon, Miss, 219 
Vesey, Mrs., assemblages of, 10 

Waldegrave, Earl of, 220 
Walpole, Horace, his " Castle 
of Otranto," 5, 6 ; his de- 
scription of Bristol, 8 ; bored 
by Mary Robinson's per- 



formance in " The Miniature 
Picture," 247 ; his view of the 
friendship between Fox and 
Mary Robinson, 298 ; his 
description of Robert Merry's 
style in poetry, 327 
Wayman, Mr., 39 

Yates, Mrs., actress, 183 
York, Duke of : see Frederick 

Augustus, Bishop of Osna- 

burgh 



PRINTED BY 

HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD. 

LONDON AND AYLESBURY 



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